On the Road
by Enchiridion88
Summary: Through a brutal winter filled with the horrors of the zombie apocalypse, Rigby the raccoon is left to survive on his own. Separated from everyone he knows, with... those... swarming at every corner, and the people being just as dangerous as the undead; everything is just about living one more day on the road... CANCELED, PLEASE READ AND LEAVE FEEDBACK
1. On the Road

This began as a quick thought in my head but, like all thoughts I have, it occupied my mind and would not leave, or let me get back to Chronicles of the Enchiridion, until I wrote it down.

Yes, it looks like it's my turn for the ill-faded "Zombie Apocalypse" story. Whoo. But honestly, I don't feel that there are many strong ones on this board; or, at least none that get thick of what makes the zombie apocalypse the zombie apocalypse. It is about your own humanity and survival. Very rarely is there ever the _survival_ aspect, where those left are clambering for whatever they can to live on just one more day. It's only partially about the actual guns and killing.

I'm already covering a different kind of apocalypse with my biggest story, Chronicles of the Enchiridion. However, I hate that I won't get the bone-crushing blunt of the end of the world based on how I have the events of the story laid out. So, here's this.

ANYWAY,

This has influence from S.T.A.L.K.E.R. (though I never played it) and has very Russian vibe to it. This first chapter can be rated T, but any others that may be added will probably pump this to M.

This story was named after the song that inspired it: "On the Road" by _The Red Army Choir_. I would recommend listening to it at least once during the story. And, if you must, clutch your SKS and stiff a good shot of vodka.

Enjoy.

* * *

The cold winter air billows fiercely across the empty, barren plains outside of town. It chills to the point where muscles tense and the very bones seem to be no more than ice.

On the road; another step to nowhere.

Rigby the raccoon braces himself against the chilling gust of wind. He brings up his right hand to shield his face. He wishes it would stop. Every day it hounds and batters his being. Everyday it seems a message to give up; to abandon everything.

His dense, heavy wool coat blocks most of the deluge. The olive color provides good camouflage at least, but it reeks of the dead man he took it from. Despite its convenience, he keeps the hood down in the off chance that maybe... just maybe... someone he knows will recognize him before they riddle him with lead.

The wooden SKS rifle dangles loosely in his left hand. The bolt is drawn back and the collapsible bayonet is folded underneath the barrel. Across his coat sits a vest just as ugly and torn as everything else Rigby carries. It holds everything from stripper clips for his rifle to lighters, a flashlight, his water canteen, and some loose rounds. In a holster on his belt is a cheap revolver.

He was never very good with a gun, hell he never even fired one before this all started. Benson taught them all the basics at least. That was two weeks ago...

The sack on his back digs deep into his shoulders. His tarp sits pulled over it.

Everything is patchy and torn to shreds, but it's his livelihood. It's all Rigby has left.

Another step to nowhere.

Rigby looks to his right. Across the hills and valleys, dead, pale grass pollutes as far as the eye can see. It fits the matching gray sky overhead. The road he walks is as barren and empty as Rigby's world.

It's been six days since Rigby has seen another living soul... other than them. The last person he saw was foaming at the mouth and contorting his body in unholy, bone crunching positions. His eyes were glassy and his hair was falling out. Rigby had the decency to end his short life there and then instead of letting him return more unearthly than when he left. He wasn't proud of taking his wool jacket, but Rigby would need it more than him. The risk of infection didn't matter to him. If what happened to Muscle Man happened to him at this point, he wouldn't mind. But if it did, he wouldn't let it be from a bite.

If one of them does bite, if he is lucky, he will probably die quickly as the chest rips open and organs toss carelessly from the body. This is only if they are not killed after the first brutal gnaw. It's better than the agonizing pain of turning.

"How long has it been?" Rigby ponders momentarily.

With his mundane routine of walking to wherever the road leads on, it's all too easy to lose track of time. Has it been a month since this started? Two months? It might as well be ten months of winter.

All he knows is that he lost sight of Mordecai and the others two weeks ago when they were swarmed. The burning question of who's alive and who's dead still haunts him and adds to the sleepless nights of wonderment.

It's getting dark. Night will come soon.

Rigby ventures from the road into the woods a few hundred feet away. These are some of the only exceptions to departing from the guiding hand of the road.

Rigby finds an toppled dead tree, the roots forming a cove. Perfect. He takes some worn extension cords and rope from his bag as well as untying his brown tarp. He ties it across several trees, angling it away from the cove and facing the road. Once that is done, Rigby scurries through the woodlands around him collecting dead branches.

The wood is piled into a tee-pee and the leaves on the bottom are lit with two matches. Matches are less valuable to waste than lighters. The campfire lies between the tree and the tarp. Thank Christ Thomas was able to teach the rest of the park crew how to build these things.

The tarp keeps the light and heat angled towards Rigby while shielding it from sight of any desperate passerby looking to kill.

The raccoon sheds off the vest, then his coat. His fur bristles in the open air. The fire keeps him warm at least.

Rigby rests against the tree stump. His SKS lies cradled in his arms with a fresh ten-round stripper clip in front of him.

He lies motionless, but awake. It takes the painful memory of Eileen being torn from his arms to make him cry himself to sleep. He dreams about playing video games with Mordecai and slacking off. One of them interrupts their playful session and coats the walls in the blue jay's blood. It's better here, it always is stains the walls.

The raccoon jerks himself awake, rifle immediately pointed around him. His heart pounds fast and loud enough to seemingly be heard for miles.

It takes a minute of realization that he's still alive and his weapon is still unloaded before he calms himself.

He wipes the tears from his face. He hadn't realized he was crying so hard.

Nothing of the fire remains except thin streams of smoke.

The stomach groans loudly. Rigby pulls one of the few cans of corn out of his bag. This will have to be eaten cold. The raccoon stabs the top of the can with his k-bar from his belt and pries the lid off.

He's not ashamed to dive snout first into his food. He gets every kernel and even drinks the revolting, foggy juice inside. Food is hard to come by and he won't let anything go to waste. After wiping his face off, the lone survivor packs down the tarp, covers the fire, removes any traces he was there, and puts his damp, sweat-drenched coat and ammo vest back on.

Another day on the road.

He sulks forward, following the bends and curves of the highway he calls his unofficial home.

His feet are killing him at this point. He wishes he found some boots or shoes.

Suddenly, the wind picks up, much more brutally this time. Except now, it carries something much more deadly: snow.

Rigby is forced to put up his hood as he braces for the unbearable cold. The forces of nature grow angrier and angrier as the wind cuts through the air.

The snow blankets everything in sight in a haze of white. Rigby stumbles forward, barely able to see fifty feet in front of him. His feet waver with each step.

Goddamn, he could use some shoes right now.

With nothing to occupy his time and just the empty pavement and nature's howling banshee to keep him company, the former groundskeeper falls into a daze of thought.

He thinks back to the rest of his coworkers who were alive with him. He'd be dead time after time if it wasn't for them. Benson kept them all in line and organized. Skips was not only the calmest in tough situations, but also the strongest. He grappled with one barehanded and ripped its jaw from its skull. Thomas knew some vital stuff, but could be as useless as Rigby at times. Pops kept everyone going with his optimism, as did Muscle Man and High Five Ghost with their jokes and humor. It was nice to have. It was a blow to everyone when Muscle Man turned and Fives left. Margaret and Eileen were with them. He tried to hold her close until the end. He never wanted her to leave her side. I don't know what's more painful, her being ripped right out of my arms or being to stupid to tell her that I loved her before she was gone. He'd like to think Eileen is still alive, but he knows she probably isn't anymore. Then there's Mordecai...

Mordecai saved his life on so many more occasions than did Rigby in returning the favor. He made sure Rigby was alive. He kept the poor raccoon going after Eileen was separated. He's the one who gave him the drive to keep moving on. Rigby never thanked him as much as he should have for everything.

How am I still alive... Me... Rigby? It's just me. I'm not special at all. I was the weakest out of all of them. I even overheard Muscle Man say that I wasn't going to make it.

How the hell am I still alive even though everyone else is dead?!

Crap.

CRAP!

A pale green smog came tumbling ahead of him through the wintry curtain. He was dozing off for too long to realize what was right in front of him.

Rigby stops and throws his bag in front of him. "Come on. Come on!" he mutters aloud.

Finally he finds the worn, pale gas mask and straps it over his muzzle. The hose at the end connects to the filter which he clips to his vest.

He hates wearing it. It feels like he's monster inside of it. The bandits always wore these wretched things whenever they robbed. They do a fantastic job of terrifying whichever victim they faced.

His field of view is restricted to two, small circles surrounded in darkness. His breathing echoes through the mask. Through the lenses, he can see the green gas weave around him.

He slips the bag back on and dons the loaded revolver.

No one knows what the this mysterious, poison gas is or where it comes from. All anyone knows is that it scorches the throat as the lungs fill with blood. On top of that, they aren't hurt by it... An ambush through the smog is the most likely way to die.

Rigby's revolver quivers at his side. His SKS slings over his left shoulder and his other hand draws out the k-bar. At this range, if anything did pounce, his rifle would be useless.

The smoke here proves too thick. If the snow wasn't bad enough, it seems that the green, poisonous air extends miles in both directions.

Can't go around it.

It would be stupid to wait it out.

Can't outrun it going back.

The only way is to go right through it.

On the road, another step to nowhere...

His mask darts constantly darts back and forth, gun wavering.

HAEEEUUUGGHHFF

HUUUEEE

His breathing is emulated. It creates odd sounds in his head. It's playing with his mind. The crunch of the accumulating snow beneath his feet doesn't help either.

For three agonizing hours, he shuffles through the smog, pistol always at the ready.

Finally, the green smog clears, which gives him a sigh of relied. The snow, however, refuses to let up. The frozen whiteness blankets the ground by at least a half of an inch.

He can relax a little bit. Back into the holsters the knife and revolver depart as the SKS takes their places. Rigby does not want to waste the effort to remove his gas mask until he has to sleep.

Nightfall again.

He sets his camp against the trunk of a pine that is relatively clear underneath. As if by a miracle, he manages a lit fire.

He can't remove his stingy, smelling coat this time. It's far too cold. He'll have to just sleep with it on, rifle in his arms. He does at least remove the pale gas mask in order to fully breath in the fresh, yet dense and dry, air.

He eats a few slices of deer jerky in a plastic bag before falling asleep, again to the thoughts of Eileen and the others.

A high pitch screech pierces through the night. It cracks through the air, sounding like cries from hell itself.

Rigby jerks awake. He knows that sound.

He immediately smothers the fire with the butt of his rifle. "Oh crap oh crap oh crap!" His heart leaps from his chest.

The fire is smothered and Rigby's hands fumble with the ammo vest to his side. His eyes dart around the pitch blackness. Quivering fingers dive through pocket after pocket.

"Where is it?!"

Finally, he finds the ten round stripper clip. He unlatches the bayonet and fixes it on the muzzle. The clip slides into the catch at the back of the action. He presses the rounds into the rifle with his thumb and puts the clip in his pocket.

Slide racked forward, safety off, and finger on the trigger.

He looks everywhere. There' no signs of life. Not even the mist of breathing other than his own.

He hears another ear piercing screech.

The crack of rifles in the distance.

Another scream. This time, it's a person's.

Poor guy.

Rigby relaxes a bit, blinking at the realization of what is happening. But still, it shakes him too much.

He sits against the tree stump, rifle aimed all around.

Not a single minute of sleep was had that night.

Restless and weary, Rigby spends another day on the road.

The snow still blinds everything as Rigby trudges through. His feet feel frozen, but he presses on. Hopefully he can find the boots of whoever that was last night. Hopefully they had the common sense to off themselves first.

Nothing but blinding whiteness against the pavement.

Finally, he sees something in the distance.

A silhouetted figure.

Rigby unfolds the bayonet on his SKS.

The rounds are still in the chamber. Ten is all he has to protect his life with. Just ten.

He shoulders his rifle, just as Benson showed him.

His breathing is too heavy; surely the stranger heard him by now.

The figure is slugging around, not in any discernible direction.

Rigby clears his throat.

"H-H-ello...?" he calls out.

No response.

Rigby gulps.

"Hello?!"

The figure turns.

Glowing beady eyes meet his. The yellow eyes pierce through the blinding wind.

It's one of them.

RRRRRRWWWWHHHHHAAAIIIIIIIIIIIII It screams violently as it rushes him. It shrieks with all the fury of hell.

It's a screamer.

Oh shit!

Rigby backs up, firing wildly at the charging creature.

He lobs off only three rounds until it reaches him.

The tattered clothes of the monster sit against pale, glossy gray skin. The fingers are mutated into claws.

It leaps onto the terrified raccoon, tumbling both of them to the ground.

The bayonet of the rifle slides through the monster's chest, showering Rigby with its slimy, putrid blood.

A barrel length is all that separates them.

It shrieks again. Rigby's ears ring until he goes momentarily deaf. He's screaming with it.

It's undeterred as its jaws snap wildly, a mere foot above the raccoon's face. The clicks are menacing and the creature's teeth crack from the sheer pressure of each bite.

Rigby fires his SKS into its chest, round after round. The screamer jerks as its flesh is ripped into the air until the bullets create a hole large enough that they no longer even graze flesh.

The valkyrie still screams.

It slashes for Rigby's face. The raccoon barely ducks, panting heavily as the dirt above him is kicked into the air.

It slides further down the bayonet, jaws inching closer to the raccoon's scrawny neck.

Rigby screams as he lets go of the rifle and draws his revolver.

**BAM**

The round goes through the monster's head.

He fires again and again.

It slumps on top of him, dead. The weight crushes his chest.

The blood splashes over his face and coat. "Holy Sh-!" he speaks in complete shock and racked with adrenaline. Rigby wiggles his way out, gasping for air once he does. He turns and pukes across the snowy pavement.

The smell clings to him.

He yanks out his rifle; the bayonet is slightly bent.

Another scream sounds in the distance behind him.

Rigby looks ahead.

No going back; no going around.

On the road, he presses onward...

* * *

I left a lot of this intentionally vague and in the dark. I'm not sure what I want to do with it yet; whether I start the story from the beginning back and forth or keep it going with just Rigby from here.

Honestly, I think too many characters clutter up stories and can ruin something like this. If I were to go the other route, I could keep it focused solely on Rigby and his struggles for survival. Of course, there would be human foes and other dangers to keep things interesting with some friendly faces, but lone survivor stories intrigue me. Then again, the opening leaves so much for question and imagination and its making _me_ curious as hell how everything unfolded with the rest of the park crew. Or should I just keep this a dark one-shot?

Anyway, leave me a review and let me know what you think of the story and/or what direction I should take.

Thank you guys so much for the read, even if you don't review.

(Also, I have so many stories on my plate that I have no idea _if_ I can update this. The idea is that if I'm not interested in one story one day, there's like five or six more I can turn to. That or I don't have drive for any of them... XP If this gets enough support, I will try my hardest to write it.)


	2. Varchavianka

Sorry about some spelling mistakes in the last one; I've fixed most of them.

Also, the name "Glowing Ones" is way too Fallout 3 sounding (that was purely accidental, I did not mean to copy. I know they sound like the Ghouls, but S.T.A.L.K.E.R. has something similar). I just renamed them the generic _them_, but there are still _screamers_ and _non-screamers._

Here's chapter two. I don't quite know if this counts as Rated M yet. If it does, let me know and I will change it posthaste.

* * *

The encircling cries from before had faded long ago, yet Rigby's heart still kept pumping madly.

He trudges on the road, desperate. The cutting wind carries only a little snow, but its powerful force chills the blood.

With each step comes a frustrated, angry grunt. His heart feels as though it will give up.

"Get your finger of the trigger!" he hears the memory of Benson's drilling ring through his head. Sure enough, Rigby's finger still lies glued in the trigger guard of his SKS. It takes a second of realization to correct this.

His feet shiver and twitch.

Left foot.

Right foot.

Left foot.

Right foot.

He has to scream this in his mind just to move. Every fiber in his legs refuse before reluctantly obeying.

"Stop, stop stop! I can't take it anymore!" he screams aloud, shaking.

He collapses back-first into the snow. His back still collides with the pavement with a thud. He leans up to look at his feet. His brown fur masks how they really are; pale and throbbing.

Thank God Rigby was born as a raccoon if only for the fur. It provided warmth, but it could only do so much. Regardless, his throat feels like it is ripping itself apart. He takes out his canteen and drinks everything inside. He then takes the plastic flask and packs it completely with snow. All the while, he shivers and coughs meekly. Rigby puts the canteen inside his coat to melt for later.

Hungry... need to eat...

He swings his backpack around, moves the tarp and digs inside. There has to be something. Between the pots, maps, cartridge boxes, ropes, and whatever the hell this all is, he finds two sleeves of crackers and a can of spam. Damn...

"Damn!"

Rigby sobs without realizing it.

He thought he could make it...? That he actually had a chance?

Ha! As if.

Angrily, Rigby rips open the plastic surrounding the crackers with his teeth and gobbles them down.

The raccoon then stares at his feet, incapable of movement. He could barely feel them. This was all on top of the food he doesn't have, the clean coat which isn't, the clean water he doesn't have, the slavshit excuse of a rifle with a bent bayonet, and the piss-poor revolver at his side."Oh for the love of-!" he yells in his mind. What was he supposed to do?!

If he stays here, one of them will find him and he will die.

If he stays here, he will freeze to death and die.

If he leaves, his feet will give out, he'll collapse, and die.

If he leaves, he will get eventually dehydrated and die.

If he moves, he dies.

If he stays, he dies.

If he does anything, he freaking dies!

"Isn't there anything I can do right?!" he screams furiously.

The only indicator that he's still even on the highway is the shallow, one inch valley between the banks off the road. For all he knows, the road goes on for miles.

He closes his eyes and sighs aloud. Why did this all have to be happening to him?

He turns back, expecting to hear one of their screeches in the distance. The silence except for the wind means that they're long gone... or they're already here.

Either way, there's nothing for him here but death.

Keep moving Rigby, it's almost sunset.

Begrudgingly, the young raccoon lifts himself off the ground, wipes the caked snow off his pants, and continues marching onward.

He doesn't know why he's going on anymore. There's no reason to keep going, yet there's no reason to leave either. "That, and I'm too lazy to kill myself anyway...and I don't think I have the stomach for it... and what would Eileen say...?" His poor sense of humor is cut short by that last, bone crushing thought.

"Just keep moving, man. One step at a time."

* * *

It's almost dark, thought the sun can't be seen behind the clouds.

The wind has died down almost completely and the wind is reduced to small pockets of flakes gracefully falling downwards.

Rigby could barely move. "Ugghhh just let me fall down and diieeeee!" he groaned childishly. Everything hurt.

He looks off to his right and his mind falters. His sense heighten as he shoulder his SKS, ready to fire at anything that comes wandering forward.

Off the highway is an exit ramp. Further up the snow covered pavement lies the faint silhouette of a city's outskirts. It looks like a few low level houses.

Does he dare go in? There's bound to be monsters in there. It's almost night too. But he has no shoes and there's nowhere to camp anyway.

"Ugghhhhhhhh!" he groans as he approaches the ramp and heads into the city.

Off the road, Rigby ventures into the unknown.

Flakes trickle all around. The quarter-mile trek from the highway leads him into the cramped streets. All around, houses are butted up against each other and cars long abandoned pollute the roads. A hardware store on the corner is completely looted and the inside of the store is pitch black. Most of the red brick houses have broken windows with belongings tossed everywhere. A mangled, rotten corpse lies completely severed at the waist on the steps to a house. His spine column sticks out profusely and claw marks line the stone.

Judging by the look of things, he's in some of project or "that side" of town. Then again, everything probably looks like this nowadays.

Rigby shuffles around his vest and retrieves the flashlight. It's best not to waste any time.

He cautiously approaches the nearest boarded house. The door refuses to budge upon the turn of the handle. No good.

The sun is down. Everything is growing dark.

In the distance, he can see a blackened figure moving around. The unnatural turns of the head and the sudden, quick movements tells Rigby everything he needs to know.

He rams against the door, desperate. The creature stops. Did it see him?

He rams it again. Nothing. He draws his k-bar out. He sticks the blade in the door where the lock is. If he can manually open it, he'll be good.

The figure is slowly moving closer, as if inspecting its prey.

"Come on," he says quietly as he fiddles with the knife. All around it grows darker until it is barely pitch black.

Rigby turns back just for a moment to see beady, golden eyes staring back at him from the distance.

He can hear clicking as he pushes the lock back into the mechanism.

He glances back one more time. The eyes are gone, but there's loud movement coming towards him.

Click

The door unlocks and he rushes into the darkness inside and locks the door behind him. THUD

The monster slams into the door and scratches at it hungrily. It shakes and creaks at the hinges. Rigby presses against it and is immediately tossed from the door to the ground with the next slam. The raccoon lands in something wet, but that can wait. He trains his flashlight around the room. A table sits by the door. Quickly, he runs slides it against the wooden door.

The scratching still continues. This one's not a screamer, but still just as deadly.

Rigby leans back against the wall to the left of the doorway, exhausted. He pants heavily. The groaning and patting against the door keeps him from being completely calm.

With that taken care of, Rigby looks around the pitch black room. The first thing the flashlight shows is a stained red covering the ground. The odor is foul and clogs the senses.

Then he sees the source. A corpse lays in the center on a rug. His head is caved upwards as chunks of skull and brain coat the painted wall behind him. His blood covers everything in sight. Rigby turns away and throws up at the sight, not to mention the smell. He can barely breath. Nevertheless, it's better in here than outside with his guest.

He uncomfortably takes a closer look at the body. The raccoon searches his feet first. He's wearing boots and has cotton socks on. To Rigby, this is Christmas morning.

He quickly robs the dead man of his shoes and puts them on his own feet. He can't help but chuckle. It feels as though he replaced his feet altogether.

After enjoying his momentary success, he looks at the corpse again. In the man's limp hand lies something Rigby's never seen before.

"What the hell?" he mutters as he pries the weapon from his grasp. The handgun, if one could call it that, is a mutilated bolt action rifle. The stock is cut right down to the handle. The barrel is sawed to mere inches from the bolt, and it doesn't even have any sights as if to add insult to injury.

Rigby slides the bolt of the obrez back. Sure enough, out comes the empty shell casing of a large rifle round. This must've broken his wrist. Rigby sighed as he put the weapon in his vest.

He enters the kitchen through an arched, open doorway. He searches the shelves and finds some sealed boxes of cereal. He gets to work removing the plastic bag from the space-consuming box. The cardboard is then ripped apart as a fire starter. If only the others could see how resourceful he was. A couple of cans go into his back as well. He doesn't dare check the fridge.

There's a clatter outside in the backyard. Rigby juts around immediately. His SKS. Where in God's name is his SKS?!

It's laying propped in the corner by the doorway.

The cluttering gathers closer to the backdoor in the dining room.

Just then, his flashlight begins to flicker. "Not now! Of all the times, not now!" He hits it several times, but to no avail.

He inches towards the doorway. His heart pounds against his chest. All he has to guide his way is the dimming beam of his flashlight.

He turns briefly to his left.

Through the dining room, he sees a doorway pitch black. The backdoor is gone. Rigby didn't even notice when he stumbled in. He motioned his flashlight to the outside.

The light reflects off silvery, smooth skin just outside the house.

The flashlight dies.

Rigby jumps under the stairs in the living room. There is nothing but pitch black darkness. He can't even see the hands in front of his face. All he can hear is the muffled footsteps of the unsuspecting creature.

His hands are pressed against his mouth. Tears roll down his cheeks and across his paws. He can't move. He's frozen in place.

There's moaning outside the room, but Rigby can't tell where.

He forces his hand away from his mouth and into his vest. He pulls out the obrez. The bolt is locked forward; there's one round in the chamber. Just one.

All the while, feet clatter about inside the house. A few dishes on the dining room table smash.

The footsteps continue. They're coming from everywhere. They are everywhere.

A hand slams against the underneath of the staircase. Rigby presses back against the wall, still quiet. The glossy silhouette sits there. The figure is on top of the staircase. It's looking around; assessing the territory.

Rigby's silent crying goes on. His flushed face is soaked with tears. In agony he is forced to sit there; a rusty, useless artifact as his only hope.

It hisses faintly. It smells something here.

The hand retreats and the creature moves back down into the family room.

"Just get it over with, please! Either him or me!" He can't stand the pressure of waiting.

The footsteps go silent. Nothing is heard.

Where is it?

Where the hell is it?!

Rigby sits there in silence, waiting for fate to draw its hand. The only way out would be the backdoor, but then where? Into the street? Even if he did kill this one, the gunshot would bring dozens more.

But even more pressing is the image of Rigby's organs shredded from his stomach and tossed across the carpet. It's all the plagues his mind. It'll swing around the corner, claw first. His arm will be sliced. Then the worst of it comes. It'll bite his neck and his blood will pump across the walls. It'll feast on that while it rips everything out of his chest across the pavement. He won't even have time to gasp or fight back.

"Come on! Get it over with!"

There's still nothing.

Nothing but his own heartbeat and stifled breathing. He needs to concentrate if he wants to be quick enough for it.

He'll have maybe a second and a half if he's lucky. He inhales deeply and exhales. With his left hand he draws the knife.

All he can do now is wait.

Sit there and let it come to him. After that, he'll improvise as things happen.

A minute goes by. Silence. He dares not move.

Another. Nothing.

Three minutes. Nothing happens. Rigby is getting restless.

He no longer feels fear but instead anger. It's just taunting him.

"You asshole." He jumps back. He didn't mean to say that.

The claw comes around the corner. Rigby slices at it through the darkness.

It screeches violently as its torso falls out of the doorway. Rigby levels and fires.

The creature's head explodes into a mist of gore. Rigby screams in pain as the sharp recoil causes his arm to sprain and ache. "AHH! FOR THE LOVE OF-!"

RRRRRRWWWWHHHHHAAAIIIIIIIIIIIII

Dozens of screams fill the air. The raccoon reaches into his bag and pulls out a flare. He sets the top ablaze with sparking, red flames. Rigby bolts for the SKS, puts the knife back, and sprints out the backdoor.

He leaps over the wooden fence into the yard behind the house. He can hear them gathering. He barges straight through the next building and back into the street. Five are sprinting towards him from the right.

Rigby bolts in the other direction on all fours, SKS in his right hand and the flare in his left.

They're gaining on him and can surely outrun him. More leap out of houses and through yards.

Ahead, an alley lies between the clustered houses. He turns sharply towards it.

He drops the flare at the edge and sprints against the chain fence at the end.

Unfolding the bayonet and with a ten-round clip at the ready, Rigby kneels, aimed at the sparking light illuminating the alleyway.

"Remember everything Benson taught you."

The screeching grows closer. The terrible cries echo down the road.

Fear no longer drives him at this point. Adrenaline courses through his veins. Rigby is nowhere near the cowardly raccoon the rest of the park knows him as.

The first one arrives around the corner, red reflections emitting from its chest. Rigby opens fire. It collapses as more take its place.

Rigby kills anything that dare moves. Even with a time-consuming reload, he is undeterred as he fires again and again at them. When the inevitable click arrives, he slings his rifle and leaps over the fence. They are undoubtedly going to follow, but there is a pile of bodies that will slow them down.

Rigby runs exasperated and exhausted through the unknown darkness out of the unnamed town. He barely escaped with his life and is lucky to have lost nothing more than ammo.

Eventually, he reaches the comfortable highway yet again, thankful to have made it. He collapses to the ground and laughs at the fact he survived.

There's a reason why Rigby is still alive, regardless of whether the others are or not.

Light flakes still glide in the open air around him.

The night sky still looms overhead. It is far too late to set up camp.

Rigby marches until he finds an abandoned car and climbs inside. He wraps himself in his brown tarp. He's still feeling the rush from earlier. He's not even sure Mordecai could do something bold and epic.

He's lucky to have survived...

It was too close of a call. He drifts off to tormented thoughts of being ripped apart and thoughts of finding the corpses of his friends. There hasn't been a night where Rigby hasn't cried before sleeping.

In the morning, he awakes to yet another day on the road...

* * *

I apologize if there are any mistakes of the final scenes weren't as good as they could have been. It is about 3 in the morning as I'm publishing this chapter. Any mistakes will be fixed tomorrow.

Yes, there will be other RS characters that appear in this story, but if they are friend or foe is uncertain.

Thank you for reading and don't forget to leave a review and let me know what you think so far.


	3. The Roads

Grudgingly, Rigby opens his eyes to be greeted by the dim light of the morning. He lays squished and claustrophobic on the floor in the backseat. He must have been too tired last night to realize where he fell asleep. Now his back is sore and his shoulders ache.

Rigby stretches as he sits up, awkwardly shifting between the seats as he does. His back makes several audible cracks. "A-aggghhh, ok." Another crack came from his stretching shoulders. "Ahhh," Rigby sighed.

Peering out the car window, Rigby can see that the snow is beginning to melt. The faded, yellow winter sun pierces its way through the clouds. Patches of green begin to peek through the banks across the vast plains and forests outside. It still looks almost dead and hanging on by a thread. Nevertheless, it is much more welcome than the dull, chilling blanket of snow.

Despite how warm it looks, Rigby knows it will still be ice cold. Even in the car, he can still see his breath. Rigby takes a few minutes to organize his belongings and actually inspect what all he grabbed from yesterday.

He tosses his olive colored bag onto the center console and dives through it. He takes out the small cardboard box of 7.62x39. He'll need that soon and he'd rather not dig through everything twice. Upon finding the bag of cereal, he rips the top open and takes handfuls at a time. It all tastes like cardboard, but hey; food is food. The ice from last night has now melted in his canteen and he chugs it all down after his breakfast.

It was at this point that Rigby realizes that he kept his boots on all night. Without even taking them off, Rigby can already imagine the rank smell flooding the car. "Ew ew ew ew ew!"he thinks to himself as he begins to slide off his right boot then his left. It's worse than he imagined. The putrid smell of sweaty feet fills the cabin. It reminds of rotten Gorgonzola cheese and the worst body odor. Rigby puts on his gas mask to brace the smell.

He freezes for a second to realize how ridiculous this all is. He's literally wearing a gas mask just to take his shoes off. This horrendous picture makes him chuckle. Mordecai would be giving him hell for this right now. Benson would probably kick him out of the car; hell he'd probably send him a full mile away. And Muscle Man, oh jeez... actually, he probably wouldn't complain. He smells even worse! Rigby's chuckle broke into full out laughter at how his...friends...if they were here right now and not... His laughter died instantly. "Not gonna think about that now, not gonna think about that now!"

He places his boots and his socks outside the car and slides back inside. He then dumps his four empty stripper clips onto the console. The lazy raccoon groans aloud. This was his least favorite part. He then unloads a bunch of rounds from the box into a large pile. The painstaking process of sliding each individual round into the clips seemingly takes forever. It's already been an hour since he awoke and he still has barely left the confines of the car. Rigby's toes bunch up, and his body struggles to feel comfortable inside the tightly packed back seat. His joints beg for the open air outside the car.

Eventually, he finishes all this, loads his SKS, puts his canteen in his vest, shoulders his bag, moves for the door and-

He pauses. He can't move.

Outside, on the glass window, stands one of them. It's gray, sickening face is pressed tightly against the window. His yellow, beady eyes dart hastily around the car. The creature looks as though it is smiling at him. Tattered clothing dons its pale, smooth chest.

Rigby gulps nervously. His shoes are sitting outside at the monster's feet.

It doesn't seem to be a screamer. That still doesn't remove the danger. Its left claw is raised against the glass. It's just standing there...staring at Rigby.

How long has it been there?

With a sickening, bone rattling screeeeeeeech, the claws scratch down the glass. Rigby winces. The creature notices this slight movement and stands more alert.

It crawls on all fours and circles the car, like a shark closing in.

Rigby racks the slide forward. It creaks loudly and is difficult to put back into place. The monster notices but seems to not care. He's more concerned with the flesh on the furred raccoon sitting inside this metal container.

However, this one seemed to be somewhat smarter than the others. It seemed as if it knew that if it tried breaking the glass, Rigby would shoot.

It just circled around, waiting.

It didn't need to charge; just wait out the poor raccoon until it was forced to leave. Then it could pounce.

Rigby sits nervously and uneasily. His SKS was too difficult to engage the slide. The last thing he needs is for it to jam on him.

He takes out his loaded revolver and places it in view of the center console. The monster probably has no idea what a gun is, but Rigby still keeps it in view. It comforts him at least and it's within arm's reach.

He will have unload his rifle and manually fill another stripper clip, but it's worth it for a good cleaning; which this rifle is in desperate need of.

Then he grabs the cleaning kit out of his bag and gets to work unloading his rifle. Rigby struggles to remember how exactly Benson had shown him.

"Alright guys. Guys! Can you focus for ten seconds?!"

It was no use. Mordecai and Rigby were already playing a poorly choreographed game of cops and robbers using deadly glock brand sniper assault high capacity assault hand clips.

"SIT YOUR BUTTS BACK DOWN RIGHT NOW!" he shouted, face growing red with anger. The two groaned as they sat down in their chairs at the table lined with rifles.

"Maaaaan, Benson, why can't we just start shooting and just be all, 'Who goes there? Pew pew pew!'?" Rigby asked intently.

Mordecai concurred, "Yeah. Like this is boring. Isn't it better to actually teach us how to use these?"

"Look, we need to start with the basics. You need to know how guns work before you try to use them. You need to respect them." He slapped away Rigby's hand which was reaching for the AR, "And these are not toys!"

Benson sighed aloud as he pinched the bridge of his nose. He began, "Okay, let's just go through the basic of the basic: what to look for. Okay guys-guys!" The two were too busy drooling like children over the AR-15 on the table. "Alright, fine! Which do you two think would be the best choice of rifle?"

The two instantly pointed to the AR. "It's obvious; the machine gun! Duh!" Mordecai stated in a matter-of-fact tone.

"Wrong. Not just in what's best but in what it is," Benson surprised them. "First of all, it's not a machine gun. None of these are machine gun. You'd be lucky to find one actual machine gun. Almost everything is semi-auto."

"Bu-bu-look at it!" Rigby gagged over the black polish and the rails lining the famous rifle.

Benson leaned back, as if preparing for a big lecture, "I like the AR and there is a lot of ammo for it... but it's the most popular rifle ever. Everyone has one, so everyone will be looking for ammo for it. Also, 5-56 is actually not as strong as they make it look in the movies and-"

"Boring! Can we just get to shooting it?" Rigby inquired.

"NO! This is important! What if I died or you were on your own and you had to find this on your own?! Then what?!" he exploded. The two recoiled back into their chairs, partially ashamed. "Sorry for that. I just want you to know about all this because I don't want to see anything bad happen to you two. But... going back to what I was saying, you'd actually be better off with something like this," he said as he picked up the AKM.

"But that's what all the bad guys in the movies use," Mordecai stated.

The seismic shock from Benson's facepalm was staggering. He sighed, breathed, and continued, "The thing with AKs and other Russian weapons is that they're somewhat popular but nowhere near as much. 7.62-by-39 is dirt cheap and everywhere. You're going to run into more for this. Plus they're not that bad. And even the bolt action rifles are stronger and everyone has Nagant ammo. Here, we'll get into all that ballistics and stuff when we try shooting and you guys are already falling asleep I can tell."

The dynamic duo rested their heads in their arms, trying to stay awake.

"Let's just skip to cleaning and taking things apart."

"You're not very good at this, are you?" Rigby retorted.

"It was so much easier when it was Thomas and the girls! Jeez! Anyway, here Mordecai, this can be yours," Benson said as he handed Mordecai the AKM.

Rigby eagerly held out his hands for his new toy. "Oh, uh..." Benson stammered. He looked at the rifles on the table: the expensive, complicated AR; an AK-74 whose ammo is actually nowhere near as available; a cheap, ugly SKS, and a shoulder crushing Mosin Nagant. He takes the SKS and hands it to Rigby, "Here, this is more your size."

"AH, WHAT?! Bu-but look at Mordecai's!"

"Deal with it!"

The blue jay eyes his friend along with their signature, "Hmmph hmmph hmmph."

"Okay, so let's get started..."

Rigby was too entrenched in his memory to realize how far on the SKS he had gotten. He planned on just taking the bolt back and doing a quick swipe down the barrel, yet it escalated into almost an entire disassembly.

Nor did he notice his audience.

The monster from before still stands, eyeing the raccoon hungrily. Yet now another has joined his side. On the other side of the car, two more stand as well. They all crowd around the tiny car, eyes lock on the tiny raccoon in the backseat.

It is at this point that Rigby begins to be overwhelmed with panic. He hastily puts his rifle together; fiddling with spring in the bolt.

Their waiting is finished.

The first of them begins to slowly touch its head to the glass. Back and forth; gaining speed each time.

Rigby finishes, loads a ten-round clip and racks the bolt forward. Unfortunately, his shoes outside have to be left behind.

The raccoon dives over the center console. The creatures follow suit.

Rigby removed his knife from his holster. The creatures bang against the glass. Each audible crack sends chills up Rigby's spine and leaves him a shaking wreck.

He presses the knife deep into the ignition and forces it to turn. The engine revs before sputtering and dying. One more turn starts the small car.

BANG

The passenger window shatters onto the seat. Rigby shifts into to drive and immediately floors the pedal.

The car takes off, tires screaming and screeching on the pavement. The monsters give chase but cannot match the speed of the car.

Rigby laughs heartily to himself as he sees the gradually shrinking figures in his rearview mirror. He escaped danger yet another time. Except now, there's another lurking danger.

The car begins to beep at him. "What?! What do you want?!" Rigby demands aloud in a frustrated tone.

He's almost out of gas.

After a half of a mile, the car sputters and signifies its approaching failure. At the end of that half-mile, though, there is a rest-stop.

Rigby pulls off the highway and drives the slowing car up the ramp towards the tiny building. In the parking lot surrounding the stop are several scattered cars, long since abandoned.

Rigby finally relaxes; safe for now at least.

He grabs his bag and his rifle from the back seat and removes his knife. The ignition is permanently ruined, but it's not like the car's useful anymore anyway.

He steps out and takes a quick assessment of everything around him. There's nothing much to this tiny parking lot. The shattered glass on the building and the spilling of various maps give hints of being looted long ago.

Rigby sighs and walks around. The majority of the cars sit with broken windshields and flattened tires. "No Gas" signs sit over the pumps.

He makes his way back towards the front of the rest stop and through the parked cars. One of them could have something useful in them: maybe food, clothing, or another weapon.

Then something catches his eye. There's a glitter of light on top of a hill in the opposite direction of the highway. He can't tell what it is, but it's angled towards him.

**BANG**

The bullet misses its mark and rips into Rigby's bag from the side, dragging him to the ground. That did not come from the hill. Rigby rolls onto his back. Rigby blindly fires his SKS.

A man stands but thirty feet away with a scoped PSL. A menacing gas mask clouds his face and only reveals his wild, crazed eyes. The rounds rip into his shoulder and chest, knocking him back.

The stranger still holds his rifle and returns fire. Rigby slips out of his bag and scurries behind a nearby car. The rifle rounds dig through the metal.

There's no time to think; no time to breath. Rigby presses himself against the side of the car and shuffles toward the front end. The glass windows shattered violently and coat the ground. Then he hears a mechanical click.

Rigby sweeps around the hood, gun at the ready. The man has tossed his rifle and sprints at him with a drawn knife. Before Rigby can react, he skids over the hood and kicks the SKS out of the raccoon's weak hands.

Rigby leaps back to avoid the next wild swing, almost falling to the ground as he does. The revolver is drawn and fired. It rips through the edge of the man's grey coat, yet he still charges. He lunges again. Rigby leaps to his left, revolver falling from his grip.

He picks up his SKS from the ground nearby and hurriedly gets to his feet. The man charges once more. Rigby extends the bayonet at the last second and takes aim.

**BANG**

They collapse together on the ground. Rigby howls in tortured pain as the knife rests delicately on the left side of his stomach.

The man gasps heavily. The openings on his gas mask turn red with his blood. The bayonet stabs him in the chest just below his heart.

Rigby screams. The man holds the knife into the raccoon's side. He yanks it out and forces it back into Rigby again. Rigby screams even louder as tears stream down his face. His body jolts to avoid the sharp pain. The sharp knife pierces through his flesh, spilling a fair amount of blood on the ground.

In desperation and anger, Rigby fires his rifle. Chunks of raw flesh spew from the back of the man's chest as his blood fountains into the air above them.

The stranger lays limp, yet Rigby pulls the trigger two more times. Rigby finally squirms his way from underneath the body. He squeals and collapses once his stomach touches the pavement.

The wounded animal whimpers as he crawls on his back against the wall. There he rests, crying aloud. His hands are drenched in blood, but he's not sure whose.

The dead man lay but ten feet from him. Bits of his chest are scattered behind and around him. The stained goggles on his mask are turned to Rigby.

"A-aghh! I-i-t's, gulp, it's okay! I-I, aghhh! -I'm okay!" He comforts himself. Something will surely be coming this way soon. He has to leave.

Yet the chance escapes him.

"Wooh, that is nasty."

Rigby's limp head shifts to his left. Four figures come into view, all wearing gas masks. Their clothing is relatively sound and consists of everything from jeans and hoodies to flecktern pants and olive coats. One carries an AR-15 while the rest wield AKs.

"Alright, looks like I won," says the one in front. It's easy to tell from his voice that he used to live in the city. His mask's filter is attached at the side near his cheek. He appears much shorter than the others.

"Are you serious?" comes a feminine voice behind him.

"Damn!" says another man who's busy scanning the woodline.

"I thought the bigger guy would have won for sure," replies the female.

"You all owe me. So pay up."

"Son of bitch," grunts the fourth man in a thick eastern accent as he pulls a rifle from behind his back. The barrel was thick and cylindrical while the stock was wooden and met with the metal at the back of the receiver. "'Vou know how illegal Vintorez is? This is bullshit!"

"You bet it against my AR, so a deal's a deal," replies the short one again.

The member of his group sighs and hands over the rifle. The woman reveals a thick pack of jerky and tosses it to the leader. The man on watch struggles with the holster on his thigh while supporting his AK. Once off, he tosses back the pistol.

The first speaks again, "You know the score. I put my bet on the small guy with the SKS and you all thought I was full of it. Look, if we find two more jackasses again, maybe you can bet this all back." He walks up to the corpse. "Yeesh." CLUNK. The new rifle doesn't quite crack, but is rather muffled. It sounds as though a wrench was dropped on the ground. The head of the corpse cracks open, spilling brain matter around their boots. The first stands inspecting his toy with heavy admiration before turning to the others, "Anyway, Nick: keep doing what you're doing. Lisa: search this guy. Alek: check the building. Who knows; you may get lucky twice."

"And what about you?" says Lisa.

"I'll check on our winner."

Rigby can hardly find the strength to move. He sits in wait as the short leader makes his way over to him. Rigby is greeted by the pale, masked figure. The leader kicks away the SKS. "I'll take that," he speaks passively as he reaches down and tosses Rigby's K-bar off to the side. The revolver still lies just out of reach.

"Well, if it means anything, thanks for the bet," the man gravely speaks to Rigby.

He raises the new rifle to the raccoon's head.

"P-plee-..." Rigby cannot even manage to finish the word.

Suddenly, the figure eases his weapon. His head cocks to the side with curiosity at the wounded raccoon before him.

"Hey! I think I know this guy!" The leader redirects towards the raccoon, "Rigby?"

Rigby's eyes widen with fear yet a hint of relief.

The short man crouches down to his level and removes his gas mask and pulls back his hood. The man is an otter whose usually shiny brown fur is now tinted and ruffled with dirt.

"You don't remember, do you?" he says. "It's me... Doug."

Rigby presses his back further against the wall. He doesn't like the look of how this is going.

"I'm kinda surprised, Rigs," he speaks in his noticeable Chicagoan accent, "You're the last one I'd expect to be here. What about, uhh, that blue jay guy: Mordecai? He still around?"

Rigby simply swallows hard, struggling to even open his mouth. The intense pressure from the stab wounds keep him from moving.

"Hmm, guess not. In case you were wondering about me, I've been alright since you got me in prison. Met a couple of guys, got a nice gig going, get to have fun playing the town bandits; it's working out for me. You know, you could fit in really well with us."

"Doug, what's taking so long?" Lisa demands, "I don't like it here. We need to keep moving before any fleshies show up."

"Alright, alright!" the otter shouts then turns back to the raccoon, "But you can't. I'm sorry to do this, but we don't leave survivors and we can't make exceptions."

"W-wait..." Rigby chokes out. His right hand shifts into his coat. It seems useless. He cannot run nor can he fight. The only thing left is to wait for his turn to die. Maybe, if he's lucky, his friends are already waiting on the other side.

"Hmm?"

"I-... Y-you, you f-ff-f-"

Doug leans in closer.

"Y-ou-..." Rigby's eyes jerk open. There's no reason to quit now. He almost forgot about his new toy from last night. He musters every ounce of his strength and pulls in Doug with his left arm, "You forgot to search under my vest."

The roar of the obrez thunders loudly as the blazing fire breaks from the muzzle. From under the chin, the rifle round rips into Doug's skull and nearly splits it in two. His head rocks back violently as a red mist coats the ground around him. His bleeding eyes open and stare blankly at the gray, desolate sky as he plummets backwards.

The other three stand aghast; their leader's blood paints the ground. Their driving force meets his end at the hand of a lowly, wounded raccoon.

Nick raises his AK towards Rigby. Then he screams violently as everything fades into a blur. One of them leaps onto his back and rips his throat apart with an all powerful bite.

They followed Rigby here.

Nick's screams turn to gurgling pleas for help as the monster lashes at his sides, ripping the tendons from his ribs. Lisa fires wildly at the creature out of sheer desperate fear. The two fall together in the hail of bullets.

Two more leap from the woods. Lisa and Alek are forced to forget their friends and focus on the threat at hand.

Rigby's pain is quelled by the excitement. His blood pumps harder and faster as the adrenaline overwhelms him. Every fiber in his body screams over the arching stings in his side to move: move or die!

Rigby arches slowly forward, cringing. He can feel his wound stretch as he moves, sending another jolt of mind-numbing pain. Nevertheless, he has to live.

A pair of beady, golden eyes lock onto the raccoon's. Rigby racks the bolt back on his obrez in a terrified manner. The creature sprints on its legs towards him. A quick, unsteady shot blows the monster back to the ground. Rigby pulls the straight bolt up then back. The rifle is empty.

Rigby strains to lift himself back on his bare feet. The deafening rattle of inconsistent, sporadic gunfire surrounds the area. He limps feverishly to his SKS, then to his revolver, and K-bar.

Nick is already beginning to contort. He writhes on the ground, rolling and letting out churning gargling underneath his gas mask. The audible crunching of bones floods Rigby with the thoughts of Muscle Man's turn.

He turns to go for his bag, but it's near the other two bandits. Another one of them leaps onto Lisa's shoulder from the side; tackling herto the ground and sinking its teeth into her forehead. Nick is already beginning to move like the others.

"DAMNIT!" Rigby screams as he limps away and leaves everything he owns behind. The blood still flows profusely from his side. He is reduced to using the butt of his rifle as a crutch.

He turns his back only to make sure none are following him. Once one hundred feet away, he keeps focused on the woods in front of him. He only flinches when Alek's blood-curdling screams echo from behind.

Low on ammo, bleeding to death, and having lost everything but the clothes on his back and the weapons in his hands; Rigby finds himself dangerously far from the road...

* * *

I think this is the chapter that makes this rated M. Sorry, but no more T rating

I apologize for the lack of updates, in this and _all_ my stories. I have been very tied up in everything. No promises but I will try to update somewhat more. I've taken the longest brake from CotE that is still ongoing. When I get back into it, I'll be pouring with ideas and drive.

Anyway, thank you for the read and leave a review letting me know what you think so far.


	4. Oh Fields, My Fields

**Named after the Red Army Choir Song, _Oh Fields, My Fields. _I guess it would apply for certain sections of the chapter.**

* * *

Another step, another agonizing sharpness in his side. Rigby stumbles through the woodland, growing further and further from the familiar sanctity of the road.

He had long since passed the rest stop and the unfortunate fate of Doug Shablowksi. All of his belongings, bare the rifle in his hands and the revolver in his waist, were left behind.

The trail of blood following him has dissipated to a thin trickle; but this is not a good thing.

His tear-soaked eyes are marred with exhaustion and fatigue. It is at this point that Rigby trips and collapses to the dirt ground. The pain from his left side is overwhelming and the sudden fall sends a jolt of dull, lingering pain through his body. Rigby wishes he could sleep. How easy it would be to simply lay there; never get up.

However, he cannot let that happen. Something primal, animalistic in Rigby resurrects for a moment. He has to live, even if only for the sheer sake of it.

The whimpering raccoon rolls onto his back. He inspects the wound at his side. The blood stains his olive coat a deep maroon and drips from the seams. The fur conceals most of the wound. He rubs his fur back and sees the gaping, fleshy crevice in his stomach. He winces and reels back; his fingers feel like knives against his bare flesh. He sobs aloud, unashamed to be crying so heavily. After a few seconds, he builds the strength to quiet himself; a lurker may hear him. Yet, he cannot help the tears trailing down his face.

Rigby plants his hands into the dirt and drags himself towards a tree trunk. He rests against it; sitting up. There has to be something to help his injury. He dives through pouch after pouch on his vest. There's nothing; nothing but matches, a lighter, dwindling ammo, and a flashlight. He opens his canteen; empty. Of course.

Rigby groans at what he must do. He slips off his vest, then awkwardly removes his jacket. He takes out his k-bar and tears across the coat at the chest level, slicing it in two. He wraps the upper half around his body and ties the sleeves together near the wound. He winces, then relaxes for a moment. The pressure alleviates some of the pain, but only some. At least he has something for the bleeding.

But now he is bare in the tundra. If the ever howling wind grows colder again, his fur may not be able to protect him. He clips the vest back on and attempts to stand. He has to use the tree for guidance.

Rigby sighs and looks around. It is still the middle of the day, but time can fade quickly. The raccoon wanders into the unknown; finger on the trigger and ready to kill.

All around is nothing but pale, lifeless trees and decaying weeds. His footsteps create loud crunches against the dead leaves on the ground. A crunch sounds in the distance, causing Rigby to freeze and hold out his SKS. He waits while squatting lower to the ground. The crunch resounds, going quickly from one side in the distance to the other. Rigby looks ahead and sees nothing; only dead brown against a gray sky. Yet, there is a steep hill not far ahead. What ever is making that sound is coming from over top of it or near it.

The crunching grows louder and gets closer. Rigby tightens his grip on his rifle. A tight grip will throw off his shot, but he cannot help it.

The sound of leaves kicks again from behind him now as well. He perks up, terrified.

Then he hears more from the left.

Then the right.

The sound of movement and crunching leaves fills the air. It sounds above him even, as though in the trees themselves.

All around if the enclosing, crushing feeling of abrupt and certain death. Rigby turns madly, looking all around trying to see something, anything.

They grow closer and closer until they seem but moments away. Rigby cannot take the stress; the pressure and the exhaust. The claustrophobia sets in greater than ever.

It's the blood. They can smell it. It has to be.

Rigby's wild eyes spin frantically.

One crunch.

And another.

Finally, Rigby screams. He clutches his rifle and fires blindly into the underbrush. He shoots all around, through the leaves and through the bushes and tress.

He then staggers away, desperate to escape. His ten rounds are spent. The bolt of the SKS sits back patiently, awaiting another clip to feed on.

Rigby's jog slows to a meek limp. He hasn't eaten since this morning and his stomach growls at him. However, the raccoon pays no notice; driven only by the need to escape.

Eventually, he escapes the clustered woods and finds himself in a field of long, yellow grass. The stalks come up to his waste. The clearing extends as far as he can see. Patches of heavy snow lay scattered throughout.

He turns back behind him, expecting to be followed by charging lurkers. To his surprise, nothing follows him but the whispers of the wind. He begins to think that the whole ordeal was fictitious, that it only existed in his mind simply to corrupt and ruin him. To drive him insane.

His wound's pain sharpens. He's lost a fair amount of blood.

Rigby continues his unending walk forward. Nothing but fields stand in his way. On the horizon, the clouds pirouette and crash together. If it weren't for his state, Rigby would have stopped to admire its surprising beauty.

The wounded raccoon marches on. The fields of brown seem unending. None of them are nearby. Rigby takes the time to finally put his mind at ease. The grass shifts and bends around him. It rolls in waves with wind. In Rigby's left hand, the grass runs gracefully through his fingers.

Yet from his right, his rifle drops through the hay. The raccoon bends to pick it up, yet quickly plummets alongside it. He groans in agony on the wet ground. The mud from the melted snow stains over his coat and arms. His side sent a shock up his body when he lent. The bandages grew muddy and wretched.

Rigby grimaces, temples pulsing, as he stands, rifle in hand. His wound still takes its toll.

The raccoon continues onward through the massive fields, treelines lining each side, a mile apart.

A single, large oak tree stands protruding from the ground. After resting against its trunk for half an hour, Rigby marches on. The clouds grow darker and more violent in their speed and clashes.

Something is not right.

There is a shadowed figure about a hundred or so yards off. Its pace is too slow an steady to be one of them. But a person can be just as dangerous.

There looks to be something strange even further in the distance. There seems to be a giant wall of tan and green. Rigby's eyes widen.

It's another poison gas storm.

The solid wall extends all the way up to the clouds.

His body shakes with complete and uncontrollable fear. He doesn't have a gas mask. He's seen what happens.

The raccoon hurries through the underbrush towards the stranger in the distance. He pops up about twenty yards away, "DON'T MOVE!"

Of course, the scared stranger grabs for his slung rifle. Rigby fires instantly, but his shaking hands trail off the shot. The figure fumbles with his weapon before dropping it to the ground. The stranger then stands erect, but shaking nervously. His gas mask if already on his face in preparation for the gust. It's a full face mask that covers all but the eyes.

Rigby briskly walks forward, SKS trained so that there won't be another missed shot.

"T-Take it easy, man!" The voice is male and rather adolescent.

"Gas mask! Now!"

"D-...dude! Just take it easy!" His shaking and fear grow more present.

The gas grew closer and closer. "NOW!" Rigby demands.

The man reluctantly complies as he removes his mask. His face shows that he cannot be more than sixteen or seventeen.

If only he had kept the gas mask on. How much easier this would have all been if his face remained just as that of the other monsters. An anonymous face appearing just as dangerous. Why had Rigby not killed him when he saw him?

Rigby is tossed the gas mask and hastily puts it on.

"W-What about me?!" the kid shouts.

The fog is mere yards away.

"WHAT ABOUT ME?!"

Rigby lowers his rifle and walks through the fog.

"DON'T LEAVE ME HERE! DON'T-GAH"

Rigby or them.

It always comes down to Rigby or them.

HEUUUGH

FHEUUUH

HEUUUGH

FHEUUUH

HEUUUGH

FHEUUUH

His heavy breathing fogs his goggles. The constant echo drums in his ears. All around is a pale, blinding green.

The kid behind him has finally stopped choking. His gargles end as only lifeless silence returns. Rigby doesn't want to look back at him; his blood coated mouth; his red, scorched eyes. It makes him sick to think of.

But the thought leaves him. Rigby forces it out of his head. He can worry for his sins later.

Now he wades through the green shadow of death, unaware and deeply afraid. Rifle sweeps from left to right quickly with fervid motions. Every thistle of the underbrush now sounds like dozens, no hundreds, of screamers ready to pounce.

His chest feels heavy again, as if clenching in on him.

Where is the road?!

Peering through the mist comes the outline of another moving being. Like before, this one moves with steady, slow, and fixed movements.

The raccoon feels utterly defeated. A momentary stream of tears roll down. He doesn't want to. Dear God, he doesn't want to do this again. But in the end, no matter what, it comes down to Rigby or him, and ten times out of ten, he'll make sure it's Rigby.

"Hey," Rigby says to the silhouetted figure. Rigby raises his rifle to the person in the fog. "HE-E-EY!" he screams, teeth chattering.

The figure comes closer into view. He wears a black winter jacket and white on black flektern snow pants. His gray rubber gas mask conceals every inch of his face. He bobs his head forward trying to make out whoever is yelling at him through the fog.

Rigby pulls the bolt halfway back; not enough to eject the round but enough to make the ominous click. "D-d-on't move!"

"Wfow, 'ae it ea-y ma" the man incoherently states as he figures out the situation. He raises his arms. In his left, he holds a tattered double barrel shotgun.

"What?!" Rigby yells.

"I' o'ay!" His words gargle and channel through his mask.

"P-p-put your gun on the g-g...-round!" he shouts. "NOW!" Rigby springs upwards, increasing the tension on his rifle. He tries to forget the battering winds.

The stranger complies and slowly lowers the shotgun to his thigh before dropping it. The man is about the same size as Rigby.

Rigby is at least glad the other can't shout or yell back at him. Suddenly, he freezes for a second, eyes blinking rapidly. The ringing sound comes back stronger than before. Meanwhile, the other man is looking slightly downwards. Rigby follows his eyes to his side. His coat is completely stained red and still slightly dripping blood.

Rigby snaps back to look at him. Now what? Now that Rigby has him held up, what does he do? Rigby can see the bulge of a black satchel, just beneath his winter coat.

Rigby doesn't want to take it. Not like before.

"'Ereyee!"

"What...?"

The stranger looks past Rigby's left. "EREYEE!"

Rigby's eyes widen as he rotates to his left, gun at the ready.

Before him stands another man in a thick blue and white flannel jacket, heavy pants, and an elongated gas mask. He loosely dangles a .22 rifle with both hands at hip level, completely taken off guard.

"HEY!" Rigby shouts. The second man freezes.

There's rustling to his right. Rigby withdraws his revolver with his left hand and points it towards the first stranger. His SKS rests in his left elbow still pointed at the second man. The shorter of the two was preparing to charge Rigby, knife at the ready, before Rigby caught him.

"PUT IT DOWN!" Rigby shouts as he swivels his head back and forth between them. A quick gust of wind forces him to shutter and wince.

The second man, who is considerably taller, raises his rifle in front of him in surrender. "Hey, hey! It's okay!" His gas mask is a newer model.

He bends over to place his .22 on the ground. He reveals the AR15 strapped on his back by doing so.

"H-HEY!"

"It's alright! Both of them, okay?! Yeah. Okay," he replies as he places his other rifle to the ground. He seems visibly calm.

Rigby looks back to the first, who only shakes in fear.

"Chad, it's okay! Chad! Look at me. Look at me, okay? It's alright. It'll be okay. Nothing's gonna happen to me or you," The second man has forgotten Rigby and takes a step towards his friend. "Just don't do anything stupid. Just stay calm. Please."

"C-C-Chad?" Rigby mutters questioningly. It sounds so familiar. Like an old memory that you remember but you can't quite place.

The two look back at him, just as curiously.

Rigby has loosened his grip. "C-Chad... Wh-?"

RRRRRRWWWWHHHHHAAAIIIIIIIIIIIII

"CHAD!"

The sudden cracking of a bullet alarms everyone as the bloody corpse of a lurker collapses on top of Chad.

Smoke emits from Rigby's revolver.

It all happened so quickly, Rigby had no time to think. The other stranger stood surprised. Chad wiggles out from the bloody monster.

Rigby weakly aims his rifle back at the other man. The excitement sent his heart racing. His side spurted small streams of blood.

"D-D-...Don't..." Rigby mutters. The heavy green fog has grown even thicker. Rigby can hardly see his own arms. All he hears is faded shouts all around him.

The smog quickly fades to black as Rigby feels himself spinning and his legs lose all tension.

* * *

"How much do we have to go on?"

"Ehhhhhhhh, unless you count a few cans of shitty pears and pinneapples going, not so well."

"What's wrong with pears?"

"They're fucking disgusting. Don't try to tell me they're not."

"Fine. We'll have to head out in the morning. Map me."

"Okay, so far we searched this suburb, or what we could of it. The projects here are gone. Ehhh, not looking so good."

"Find something, now. 'Meantime, got any 5-5-6 left?"

Ughhhhhhh

"Dude...?"

"Oh shit, he's waking up!"

Wheaa-...

M-Mordeai...?

Rigby's eyes open and focus. A white figure stands over him. The face is instantly recognizable.

"Close. Jeremy," the glasses wearing ostrich replies.

"Heh... sorry..." Rigby mutters painfully. He winces as he sits up to take in his surroundings. The three are in some sort of basement. The walls are cream colored and windowless. There is a table at one end of the somewhat small room and a few bed spreads separate from him. The only way down is a bolted door behind his head.

The raccoon looks down too see fresh bandages wrapped around his stomach with a gauze patch at his side. Rigby then looks past it to see a blanket over his legs and waist, but feels nothing under it. He never wore any clothes before this all happened, but now he just feels... naked.

"Uhh... what happened?" he asks half awake as he weakly pulled his blanket up his body.

"Oh, uh... sorry about that. Your stuff was all bloody and torn," Jeremy replies as he knelt by him.

Chad adds, "I think he means in general, (pervert). You passed out from blood loss."

The raccoon scans back and forth between them. The last time he saw them was when they both attempted to steal his and Mordecai's jobs. Seeing them now is just so surreal. "He-ey guys. I know this sounds dumb, but the last time we saw each other, we were, eh... jerks... Why bother saving me?"

"Well for one, you didn't shoot us. So that's a plus," Jeremy answers as he stands up, "And two, well... who cares? Who cares what happened then? We know your name and you remember ours. These days that's about as close to a friend as you can get."

"And three, you saved my life," Chad pipes in, "So why did you save my life then?"

Rigby is taken aback. "I don't know. I just...did."

"So we cool?"

Rigby mixes a chuckle and a sigh as he lays back down, relieved to finally have other people around him, "Yeah, we cool."

"So what's your story? Are, uh, those other guys still around or..." Rigby remains silent, staring only at the ceiling. "R-Right. Sorry for asking."

The raccoon sighs before speaking, "I got separated. I don't know, man. But... can I please get some clothes?"

* * *

"So what's your story?" Rigby intrigued as he pulls an olive sweater over his head. He and Jeremy sit with their backs against adjacent walls while Chad sits on the table. It is the first time in a while they could all actually relax.

"Well, I didn't meet this dickless asshole until about a few days ago actually," Chad motions to Jeremy as he digs through the tan rucksack on the table.

"Thaaanks."

"No problem." He retrieves two cigars from the bag and pointed it towards the ostrich. Jeremy nods and is tossed one.

"I found him," Jeremy mutters with a cigar in his beak as he lights it, "In a convenience store taking a piss like a dumbass about a week ago." He sucks in the heavy tobacco before exhaling. "Before that, we were both on our own. Living day by day. No plan in the world. Not knowing if you'd live or die. Not caring. We were both like that for a month since the group we were both in got swarmed." The ostrich takes another heavy puff of his cigar, trying to repress the memories of everything he just said. "You-... you can't believe how much it meant to finally find him again."

"I don't know where I'd be without ya, bro," Chad smiles.

The ostrich chuckles and smiles back. "So what about you, Rigby? What's your story?"

The raccoon coughs meekly from the cigar smoke. He finds it hard to speak. "Uhh... I don't know. I was with Mordecai and Ei-Eil-... everyone else. Then a bunch of them show up and I got lost and that's it."

"Them? You don't have any special name for them?" Chad inquires.

"Why? What do you call them?"

Chad and Jeremy glance at each other before answering in unison, "Skinwalkers."

"Skinwalkers?"

Chad explains, "Some old indian legend about people who morph into monstrous creatures, or the other way around, who eat you. What's your name for them?"

"I don't know, Screamers?"

"Lame."

"Aw, what?!"

"LAAAAAME! Skinwalkers is better."

"Agreed, Skinwalkers is totally better."

Jeremy and Chad air-five without even glancing at each other like a pair of cool bros.

"UGGHHHHHHHH" Rigby groans in defeat.

"Anyway, what's your plan?" Chad inquires.

"What plan?"

"You know, that long term goal. The place with the sunshine and rainbows. The end of the road."

"Just keepin' it real."

Jeremy sits erect, "You don't have any plans?"

"Nah. I've been alone all this time and I just stuck to the road. I'm guessing you have some sort of big plan worked out?" Rigby retorts.

The two look at each other before answering, "Nebraska."

"Nebraska?"

"Nebraska!" Then Chad adds, "Or Kansas or the Dakotas or something like that. Just out West."

That's the weirdest idea Rigby has ever heard. "Why?"

Jeremy sighed, puffing out more cigar smoke, "It's a four or five day plan in progress, but think about it. Farming. Setting up towns. Making our own food. Lots of flat, open land to see for miles. That's it right there!"

"Do you even know how to farm?"

"Chad!"

The possum instantly pulls out three farming books and a few bags of various seeds. "Check it!"

"We're fast learners," Jeremy slyly adds.

"Alright, alright!" Rigby finally surrenders, "Fine. You get to Nebroklahoma, then what? You need dudes."

"Well... I guess you can be our first."

"Wh-what?"

"What do you say, Rigby?" Jeremy asks, "Do you want to come to Nebraska with us?"

"I-uh..." Rigby is completely surprised by this. "Are you sure?"

"No," Chad replies, "We'll just leave you here while we go off. The fuck do you think?"

"I mean I lost all my stuff, I don't know when I can walk, and-"

"Rigby... we'd be glad to have you on board."

Part of Rigby stands in disbelief. For weeks, he only had himself for company. For a while, he seemed used to the loneliness. Though he is immensely glad to finally be with other people, part of him secretly longs for the solidarity and self-pity. "O-okay," is his response with a smile.

Jeremy sighed as he stood up, "Well this just got gayer than a bag of dicks. I'm off to bed."

Chad nods and heads back over to his sleeping bag with Jeremy. "G'night!" Chad adds

Eventually, Rigby manages to slip off into the forgetful void of sleep. For once, he doesn't cry.

* * *

Rigby awakes sharply to a tightening in his side. His wound is still taking its toll.

He expects the room to be quit, but there is loud shuffling on the other side of the room. He can hear the sounds of sleeping bags shifting and... occasional soft moans, as well as what almost sounds like a wet mop.

Rigby rolls over, just for a second, and realizes he saw much more than he needed. He immediately acts as though he was still asleep. His face grew red and hot with embarrassment and shame. He felt almost dirty for catching them like that, as if he was invading there privacy. He just wishes he could fall back asleep and skip to the morning.

Then it hits him. Despite finally having friends, Rigby is more alone now than ever. Jeremy and Chad have each other. If placed in a dire situation, they would save each other over him in a heartbeat. Who does he have? Eileen's gone... Mordecai's gone... Everyone around him is gone... These two are more strangers than anything. Out of sheer luck and chance, Jeremy was able to find the closest person to him in the world still alive.

There is no one out there for Rigby.

The thought alone drives him to tears.

Damn... for once, he thought he could go a night without crying...

He drifts back off into the engulfing blackness. Tomorrow will hopefully be better.

* * *

**One week later...**

Pebbles move and kick as hurried feet step over them.

Clinging against the wall of a small post office, the trio march in a line, scanning every corner and end of the small farm town. Jeremy, who leads them, stops at the corner. Rigby and Chad then turn their attentions to the rear and sides, rifle muzzles sweeping. Rigby's SKS bayonet sits fixed upon the end of the barrel.

The harsh winds and heavy snow tumble down, making it more difficult to see.

"How do we look?" Chad asks, the middle of the three. He shakes from the cold.

Jeremy peeks his head around the corner. "Nothing, we're clear. Rigby?"

"Nadda," Rigby passively responds.

"Move on 'three.' One... Two... Three!"

The trio swing around the corner into the wide street, passing between the various two story buildings lining each side. The crunching of snow beneath their feet are their only sounds. "Not a single shot, guys, unless we have to."

"How much further?" Chad asks.

"About a block or two."

They pass by alleys and adjacent streets. Jeremy looks back and forth at all angles. Until his eye catches silver. Down the right alley lies the recent dead body of a heavily armed bandit. Gorging on its flesh is a skinwalker. It turns abruptly, noticing Jeremy before he notices him.

It leaps at once, claws rapt and ready for carnage. Jeremy jumps back, the monster clears the edge of his face by mere inches.

They all are caught off guard.

It turns to them.

It opens its mouth.

RRRRRRWWWWHHHHHAAAIIIIIIIIIIIII

**BANG**

Rigby's rifle cuts it down.

The thunders of dozens of other screams sound all around the town.

"Oh shit," Chad mutters.

"Get off the streets!" Jeremy orders. He sprints and dives through the glass window of an antique shop. He stands, covering the others as they run from the street. Before the other two can make it to him, there is a noise to his left.

He turns and stops. Stupefied.

"What the fu-"

Chad shrieks in horror as bullets pierce through Jeremy's chest.

* * *

I apologize if the imagery got a little overboard near the end. I am writing this while also writing my essay on Shakespeare's _Hamlet_, which is a fantastic play! Yeah, it's really long and the language barrier is glaring, but it's ingenious.

Also, doooohhh I just love these two! I started my one story, _You and Me,_ as "eh, just a prequel," for Chronicles of the Enchiridion. But ever since then, they have become two of my favorite characters to write. If you caught it, there were one or two shoutouts to _You and Me._ Sorry, not sorry.

Anyway, let me know what you think and what this ending holds in store for our hero.

Also, there is an new poll on my profile. I think this and maaaaaybe one more CotE chapter I will make before the poll goes into effect.

Thank you for reading!


	5. Souliko

This chapter is named after the Red Army Choir song, "Souliko" If you can, open the song up in Youtube in another tab, but don't play it. Whenever you see the "::" please begin playing the song. Trust me, it is worth it.

Anyway, apologies for the delays. I hope you enjoy this chapter.

* * *

"NO!" Chad blurts out as he clears the broken glass through the window. Jeremy is lying down immediately inside. His flannel jacket is stained red and dripping. Further inside of the antique shop is a well armed bandit. His black gas mask and thick black coat are offset by the wooden grips of the AK in his hands. He says nothing and does not react to Chad. As the scavenger raises his rifle, Chad fires his shotgun. The blast rockets through the shop and rips the man off his feet.

"Jeremy! Oh my God, come on, come on, stay with me!" the possum screeches as he drops alongside his friend. Rigby walks backwards into the shop, keeping his eyes and his rifle at the street. More skinwalkers arrive from their hiding places in the various buildings, as though crawling out of hell itself. They latch to walls and across the floor, all crawling with fixed grins at Rigby.

"Guys!" Rigby shouts for their attention as he opens fire at the approaching monsters.

"_Eirghh,_ I'm not dead yet..." Jeremy mutters to Chad. "Get us out of here," he chokes out.

Chad lifts the much taller ostrich to his feet with an arm around his shoulders. Jeremy holds his AR in his right hand, barely keeping it level.

The three rush deeper into the store and out the back door. The door barges open to find four more bandits, fully geared and with gas masks concealing their faces. "HEY!" the first shouts as they level their rifles.

"Get back, GET BACK!" Chad screams as he slams the door shut. Bullets rip through the top half of the door and a portion of the walls as he and Rigby rush back out into the antique store. The creatures leap through the broken windows, crashing and clattering the various glass shelves.

Boxed in from all sides.

Rigby looks to his left and immediately yanks Chad and Jeremy into a small closet near the register. He pulls the door but the clawed hands of a walker reach between the wood and the frame.

They hear the back door slam open as bandits burst through. "HOLY SHI-!" one of them screams before the roar of clattering gunfire drowns out his voice. The sound of mangled flesh and deafening automatic weapons fills the store.

"Come on!" Chad screams as Rigby pulls weakly on the door. The skinwalker yanks open the door enough to reveal its menacing jaws. Chad levels the barrels of his shotgun against its mouth and blows its head off. Rigby forces the closet door closed finally.

"Oh shit, Rigby, what do we do?" Chad panics as he looks back over Jeremy. He has four gunshot wounds running vertical along the right side of his body. "R-Rigby, do we have bandages, fucking _anything_?!"

The sound of gunfire stops and only ripping flesh takes its place. "No time!" the raccoon replies as he bursts open the door once more. The closet was only a temporary hiding place. If they stayed longer, they would be overrun and it would be their tomb.

The creatures from before now all feast over the contorting bodies of the dead troops. Rigby motions for the other two to follow him. They leave back through the broken glass windows into the street.

More of them come from every direction. Chad wanders with Jeremy draped over him. Rigby follows behind, firing madly behind them and missing more times than hitting.

"Chad, where are we going?!" Rigby shouts as he loads another stripper clip and springs the bolt forward.

"Just keep running!" Jeremy commands. They weave through the parked cars on the sides of the street. The walkers crawl and leap over them in pursuit of the three.

Up ahead, a single black jeep rolls from around a corner and stops in the middle of the road. Four more bandits file out as they look upon the scene. Armed with AKs of varying make and model, they begin opening fire on everything in the street.

"FUCK!" Chad reacts as he throws he and Jeremy behind one of the cars. Broken glass shatters around and above them and bullets dent the metal. Skinwalkers behind the three collapse in droves. Rigby aims through the broken back windshield of a car he leans against. He shoots and kills one of the bandits as he drops limp to the ground.

"Propoli pupyip cyka!" one screams incoherantly as he fires at the raccoon. Rigby falls to the ground with his torso landing on the sidewalk. He looks down between the cars and buildings to see two more monsters making their way to him. He yanks at his rifle but it catches on a tire. He pulls out his revolver with his right hand and madly fires. The first falls dead but his disoriented shots fail to kill the second. Rigby's revolver makes a sickening _click_.

Chad grabs Jeremy's rifle and leans over a car. He kills the skinwalker as it is only mere feet from Rigby.

"Let's go!" Chad yells as he yanks Rigby back to his feet and supports Jeremy.

The other creatures overwhelm the bandits and surround them. The three make their way down the back alleys and stay out of sight.

They leave the town as the echoes of gunshots and wretched, demonic screaming carries through the woods. It eventually gives way to the sole sound of crunching snow.

The trio sprint a quarter mile until Jeremy finally says, "_Agh-agh-ow-augh_ I ca-can't, I can't!" Chad carefully rests him against the base of a tree just off the road. Rigby and Chad pant and heave from their running.

Chad throws himself at his friend's side and takes off his jacket. "Rigby! Rigby, I need help here! Please!"

"Woah..." Rigby mutters in disbelief. The entire right half of Jeremy's flannel shirt is stained red, as if covered in paint. A thin trickle of blood runs from the edge of his beak and merges with the tears that stream down his face.

"RIGBY!" Chad yells in panic. Rigby kneels on the other side of Jeremy. "Give me a knife!" Chad commands. Rigby tosses his K-bar. Chad rips up his coat in thin strips and begins tying them together.

Jeremy holds a wing in the air towards Rigby. Without knowing what else to do, the raccoon grasps it tightly with both paws, thinking it will comfort him in some way.

Chad shivers with only his long sleeve shirt keeping him against the raging winter winds. He ties his makeshift bandage around Jeremy's chest several times to cover the wounds. The ostrich still seems to bleed through them.

"Now what?" Chad asks, lost and confused.

"What?"

"Now what to we do?! I-Is there anything we can give him?! Any medicine, anything?!"

"Chad," Jeremy tries to say.

"Not now."

"Chad...if I don't-"

"SHUT UP! SHUT UP! You're not going to die!" Chad shuts his tear filled eyes, brings his fists to his temples, and struggles to think. "O-Okay! Rigby! There was a pharmacy in town! I need you to run in and get..._fuuuuuck!_ Get bandages a-and t-the stuff you put on cuts and a-a needle and surgical thread, _oh jesus fuck they went right through him_. A-And an IV pack if you can find one!"

"You want me to go back into town?! Are you serious?!"

"Jeremy is dying! Go! Hurry! Please!"

Rigby at once stands up and sprints away towards the town. Jeremy's very life hangs in Rigby's hands.

* * *

He crouches in the alleyway across the street from the pharmacy Chad mentioned. Getting back into town was easy enough. There were occasional lurkers that were either too wounded to move or too preoccupied to notice the small raccoon sneaking past them.

Now he rests against the edge of a street he would need to cross. Dead lurkers lay scattered throughout the street. Bullet shells pollute across the ground.

He looks around his small view of town and deems it safe. He steps out of the alleyway and immediately throws himself to the ground against a parked SUV in fear. There stand a dozen of the heavily armed bandits up the road.

_"Who the hell are these guys?!"_

They break off into groups of three and four, carefully scanning every inch of town. The group closest to him inches up the road with two men in the middle and one on each end of the road peering over cars at the sidewalk. Rigby crawls underneath the SUV and prays they would not see him. He notices how his body left a massive mold of his body sliding in the snow. Then again, there were footprints and dead lurkers marred all over.

He peers from under the vehicle at the pairs of black boots making their way towards him. His heart beat faster with each second. His SKS was useless in these cramped conditions. He slowly and quietly pulled his revolver out of his coat, then mentally kicked himself. He never reloaded it.

The boots reach his SUV, stop, move around onto the sidewalk, stop again, and continue moving with the rest of his team.

Rigby breaths slowly in relief. He cannot bear to wait there any longer, Jeremy 's living was at risk.

He peers his snout out to scan both sides of the street. For now, he was in the clear. Rigby scurried to his feet and sprinted into the front door of the pharmacy. The little bell connected to the doorway rang with his entrance.

He grabbs on of the mesh recyclable bags near the registers and sprinted up and down the aisles on all fours. He finds the bandages and the antibiotic ointment without much trouble. The suturing kit is nowhere to be seen, neither are the IV packs. They are probably in the back behind the register.

_Ding_

Rigby's heart grows heavy as he tosses himself over the counter. He pulls out his revolver, empties the spent casings into his paw, then gently places them on the ground. He pulls out what little rounds he has left and begins loading.

With his revolver full, he snaps the cylinder shut and presses his back against the counter. He holds his revolver at head level and closes his eyes in fear and anticipation.

The scouting party march through the aisles. One with a shortened AK74 sidesteps carefully towards the back drug counter. He walks along it, peering through the shelves with his rifle outstretched. The barrel hangs just over Rigby's head.

His breathing stops as the footsteps move behind him. They peel off as the rest of the squad moves back towards the door.

Rigby barely relaxes as he puts the revolver back in his coat.

_"What next...?"_

* * *

After his searching, Rigby hurries through the building tundra outside of town. The invisible sun behind the clouds has set and the darkness of night begins to set. His legs begin to give out, but he persists onward, set on his goal.

For once, he has a purpose. A goal. A way to help.

Something to redeem himself.

Though it may come at the cost of a friend's suffering, Rigby could finally be the hero. The way he was able to move like the others, and even kill like the others was paramount. He refuses to be the runt; the one needing protection.

The adrenaline surges through him, never subsiding. It carries him through the near pitch blackness of the night, guided only by a meak flashlight. The light bounces off the white ground and reflects deep into the forest.

He can easily be seen if one happens to stumble paths with him. However, Rigby ignores his carelessness as he only thinks on his friends who need him.

He can see the barely lit silhouette of a huddled mass at the base of the tree. There are still footprints skewed around the area from before.

Rigby smiles wide as he sprints towards. "Guys! Jeremy, Chad!" he shouts excitedly.

He stands in front of them and stops. The two don't move. "Guys...?" Rigby calls out. His smile fades to a confused, worried look. He pulls out his flashlight and shines it on them.

::

He wishes he hadn't. The flashlight pierces through the darkness.

Jeremy lies still against the base of the tree. His eyes lay glassy and hollow behind his cracked glasses. His shirt is drenched red and warm blood is now beginning to chill and glisten against the light like ice over a lake. His head is rested to the side and facing the road leading back into town, as if he was still waiting for Rigby to come back. His body isn't shaking any more.

What is even worse is the body leaning against him. Chad huddles close to his friend with his arms around Jeremy's back and chest. His eyes are frozen shut. The sweat and tears on his face also glisten in the light; frozen. His skin is pale and devoid of color. His coat is drawn close to him and his shotgun rests in his lap.

Rigby raises his hand to his mouth as his eyes water at the scene.

They died waiting for him. Jeremy succumbed to blood loss and Chad from grief and the terrible cold of winter. They rested their lives in a complete stranger and he failed to save them in time.

Rigby dropped to his knees, overcome with absolute sadness and the bone chilling, muscle tightening guilt. He failed again. He has proven nothing. He is just as useless as before and still cannot help anyone but himself. His sobbing and crying are unrelenting and his tears chill against the wind.

"Why...?" he mutters aloud as he falls forward onto his arms. "Why am I always alone? How come I'm the only one?!"

He leans back, getting another look at the two corpses before him. He bashes against his head with his hand. "Come on... Come on!" He hits himself even harder. "Come on, wake up damn you! WAKE UP!"

He looks around, tears still streaming down his face and his chest shaking from sobbing. His head feels light, as if it is not even there. "Mordecai? M-...Mordecai...?" he looks around, more scared and alone than ever. "Anyone...? Please..."

He tightens up as a hot flash and awful sweat overwhelm him. He wipes his eyes, though he still cries regardless. There is nothing more he can do, but everyone dies nowadays. Who cares what happens, especially if it is these forgettable two? They don't matter. They never did!

They both died.

He is still alive.

That is all the matters.

Rigby crawls over to the bag on Chad's back. He pulls it but it is frozen to Chad's back. Rigby thinks about how wrong this all is before immediately repressing his thoughts and ripping the bag off.

He opens the bag and scurries through the contents. Cans and boxes of food; water bottles, all frozen; ammunition for the AR and the shotgun; maps, books, and seeds; his cheap gas mask with some spare filters; clothes his size; a sleeping bag; and a small radio Rigby cannot recall seeing. He pulls out the little red receiver and dials through the channels. Everything is either static or permanently silent. There are also a few useless trinkets that are probably memorabilia in some way. These include a game controller, a calculator, a notebook of varying journal entries, a half empty box of cigars with matches, a few scattered photos of the two together and family, and a lone tape without a player. Mercilessly, Rigby tosses these, save for the cigars and matches, into the snow.

He looks back over the two. He reaches for Chad's jacket yet stops himself. "_Am I really going to do this? Am I really going to loot my friends' corpses?"_

Rigby is not that low. He instead reaches for the shotgun on Chad's lap and opens the barrels, though with a bit of force to break the ice. One shell is spent, the other is unused. The raccoon shoulders his SKS and wields the shotgun until he can find a better way to transport it.

He then goes for Jeremy's AR15. The weapon is ice cold. He tries to pull back the charging handle, but it is permanently stuck. The magazine won't release either. In a fit of agitation, he hurls it deep into the woods.

Rigby dumps the contents from his small bag into Chad's. He retrieves his flashlight off the snowy ground and stands up. The snow still falls delicately, peacefully. Everything is calm and quiet. There is not a sound for miles and the reflective snow allows Rigby to see almost everything around him.

He takes one last look at Chad and Jeremy who still lay dead against the tree. No one will bury them. No one _can _bury them, especially with the icy dirt and no shovel.

He wants to say something. What could he say to them if they were still alive? _Sorry you guys died. Sorry I couldn't save you. Ashes to ashes and dust to whatever_.

Rigby sighs and simply says, "Thanks for everything you did for me." He loops his arms around the backpack, holds the shotgun in his hands, and wanders off away from the town.

He plans to find a good place to camp, set a fire, and try to forget everything that happened. Unfortunately, he never will.

When morning comes, the lone raccoon sets off again on the road.

* * *

Apologies for the delays. A couple of you were asking me for this to come out. Here it is. This has a better flow and feel than Chapter 4. Something about it didn't sit well with me.

As a side note, the next chapter of CotE will come out sometime next week or (possibly) this weekend. Keep your eyes peeled for when that drops. Although it is summer and I am updating everything at much better rates, I am still slacking _A LOT_ on Chronicles of the Enchiridion.

Oh well, here is this chapter. Rigby is alone once again. Let me know what your thoughts are.


	6. Quiet Night

Rather than the usual Red Army Choir song, this is named after the song, "Spakojnaja Notsch (Quiet Night)" by Viktor Tsoi. I honestly could not find a Red Army Choir song that fit, but that does not matter at all.

Enjoy.

* * *

The harsh winter winds pound against the frail raccoon. His feet drag through the snow with slow, heavy movements.

_Why..._

That's all he could say to himself since the event, since Jeremy and Chad died on Rigby's watch. Like Mordecai, Benson, his parents, and all those before him, he let them down. He let everyone down! He can never do _anything_ right!

Rigby stops his wandering. He gazes at the trees and frozen bushes around him. There's nothing. Nothing at all. No monsters. No animals. No life. No road. No direction. Just the echoing whistle of the wind and the frigid breeze billowing through his clothes and fur.

_What am I still living for? Why can't I ever die?!_

Rigby looks up to the gray sky. "Why am I still alive, huh?!" He calls out to whoever will listen. "Whoever the fuck you are, I keep letting you down!"

The cold is too much. Rigby falls to his knees. "I keep letting everyone down," he mutters to himself. He feels himself lean forward and catches himself on his hands. Staring at the ground, small droplets of water hit the snow beneath him. It should not even surprise him anymore that he is still crying.

"What am I doing here? What _am_ I doing here? What am _I_ doing here?"

He mutters this over and over like a track playing on a loop. He just stares blankly at the snow beneath him.

"I never helped anyone. I never could do anything for anyone except me. Big Ol' Rigbone!" he mocks the nickname with a seething tone. It hurts. "This here's the year of the Rigby. Year of the Fucking Rigby!" He cannot tell if his body shakes from the cold or from his relentless crying he can neither control or feel. "...I got exactly what I wanted, huh...? All about me. All Rigby all the time..."

He sits upright on his knees. The snow continues to billow and fall around him. "What am I supposed to prove? Wh-...What am I trying to do?"

The images of Jeremy's eyes locked on the road Rigby traveled from. It engraves itself into Rigby's mind and burns.

_Who the fuck cares if I die? I'm already dead to the people that matter and the people that don't all wish I was._

"AGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" Rigby lets everything out. Three months worthy of pain and heartache drowned out in one scream. He lets it carry and echo far into the woods. His throat scorches and wants to rip itself to shreds. He makes it as loud as possible.

He holds his arms out and closes his eyes.

_Come on._

He waits for the inevitable. Something had to have heard that scream. Just one, that's all he wants. A skinwalker, a bandit, a stranger, anything! He kneels in anticipation.

_Come on!_

His body quivers and shakes violently as he sobs.

_Just end it please, please so I don't have to, please, come on, someone, anyone, please, just kill me!_

Nothing happens. Nothing fucking happens. No rustle of snow being kicked up or sensation of being tackled or the sharp pains of teeth shattering bone come. There is only the mocking whistle of the wind.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..."

_Rigby...what are you doing? What am I doing here?_

He leans back on his knees and rests his arms at his side. He wipes his still crying eyes in vain.

"Why do I even bother? What do I ever expect?"

_Because it's everyone else's fault._

His eyes snap open. The last thought came out of the most unconscious, hidden sect of his mind yet pounded its way forward.

_When have I messed up when I was alone? When...? For as long as I can remember, I've been trying to impress someone else or they make me, indirectly, somehow, someway, ruin everything. For these last two weeks, I didn't need anyone!_

"I never needed anyone," he mutters as he dries his eyes. This stranger in his mind, this unheard of idea, made more sense than any hairbrained scheme he ever created. It was impossible to argue with. Deep down, he knew. He knew that he could live on his own and do whatever he wanted. He did not need other people to judge him or to scold him.

_They don't matter! They never did and they never will. This...This right here..._

"This is my tribulation." He was never fond of the big words. They sting coming out of his mouth. This, though, this seems to fit. "I don't know how or why but this is all about me. All of it. For some dumb mystic-y bullshit reason, this is all for me to prove something. To prove who I am. To prove what I can do."

The raccoon stands up and looks upwards. "I don't know what it is, but I'm going to find it! You hear me?! I am going to prove everyone wrong! I am going to find out why I'm here! And there's nothing you or anyone else can do to stop me! No one else matters. No one except for me! Not Chad! Not Jeremy! Not Mordecai! Not even you! _Heh_, YOU DON'T EVEN EXIST! You never did! You never did..."

He looked ahead at the uncertain woods before him. "All Rigby. All the time. Year of the Rigby." He breathed in sharply as his heart beat rapidly. His first step with his new life. He exhaled and closed his eyes. His fate lay in his own hands. Before opening his eyes, he muttered one simple phrase, "On the road, another step to nowhere..."

He picked up his pace and set off through the woods.

* * *

_Three months pass..._

Lights bounce across the snow then go out immediately. The dark landscape gives way to two yellow beams in the far distance.

The wheels of a truck slip and grind over the hardened ice under the snow. The chains on the wheels keep the vehicle steady as it travels faster and faster. A mesh canopy rises to cover the flatbed to make the vehicle look like a covered wagon. The strapped down cargo gives the few men in the back no room to move. They are confined to where they crouch; rocking and slamming against the sides with each desperate turn.

The driver's neck is loosened and on a swivel. His eyes roll back and forth. Despite the freezing cold, his hair drips of sweat and his heavy clothes stick to his skin. The passenger screams incoherently. His pointing distracts the inexperienced driver.

In the back, the two men closest to tailgate through ammo away. They shout over and under the barks of their rifles. Their comrades fill the noise with shouts of fear and aggrivated scolding to the two in the back.

The gleaming headlights poke and weave around trees as they would window blinds. After it passes, silhouettes flood in the truck's wake.

No one knows why, but _they_ have been getting faster; stronger. They pair up in groups and are more aggravated. They stalk entire hordes of people then cleanse them in a single, precise attack before their prey even know what to do. Blood once again hung still in the air as more skinwalkers are created than they are killed.

The truck rocks sharply to the left. The sudden turn rocks a man out the back and into the darkness. The haze of silhouettes consume him as a hurricane would a fragile seashore. There is no scream.

The truck leaves the uncertainty of the forest. Rolling hills and plains extend far out of sight. From the rear lights, the second man in the trunk can see more clearly.

Dozens of them.

Hundreds of them.

Dead eyes leap up and down as they sprint madly after the truck. Then the veer off. A silent command echos through the horde as they turn sharply to the right and out of sight.

Just then, the truck makes a banking right turn. Orange signs point towards hell.

The man finally realizes what is happening. They memorized the roads and how they move.

At once, the creatures leap over the hill onto the truck. An unlucky skinwalker leaps too far and lodges into the wheelwell. The truck skids and loses traction. It turns too far and rolls violently along the ground. Smashed boxes, screeching metal, and doomed men spill out.

The truck comes to a grinding halt. The headlights go dead as the flood washes everything clean.

Morning comes.

The winds die down for today, but the sky is still overcast.

Four hurried feet kick up snow. A small figure scampers over the large, abandoned field. His lungs and throat burn with the heavy running combined with the frigid air entering his lungs. He squeezes air through the filter of his gas mask. The goggles fog up with each exhale and clear themselves with each inhale.

Everything feels cold to him. The metal pressed against his nose and eyes burns with frost.

Rigby stands and draws his SKS off his back as he jogs the rest of the way. He climbs up the short hill and occasionally trips in the snow. His feet press up and down, crunching and climbing through the heavy terrain. The snow never ends. Every since those two died, the snow never seemed to end. Always pouring, always accumulating, never melting. Rigby hated every second spent outside. All around was an endless sea of white that was getting harder and harder to hobble through each day.

With a definitive little jump, Rigby plants himself ontop of the hill and four inches deeper into the icy tundra. He stands gazing at what lay before him. One hundred yards away is a green truck uprooted on its side. The white snow is darkened to a deep shade of maroon. Bodies lay scattered all around the truck with their gory remains thrashed out around them. Crows gather around and pick at the remains of their largest meal in months. Broken crates are strewn in a spread stretching fifty feet down the road from the truck.

_Jackpot..._

Rigby squats down to the ground and placed his rifle next to him. He fishes a pair of binoculars from the tan vest that he wore overtop his olive green coat. He scans the truck and the bodies around it.

His view, already restricted from the gas mask, is made even tighter from the binoculars. The last thing he needs is a surprise appointment with a skinwalker. Everything seems lifeless. Thousands of small, paw-like tracks cover the ground. The carnage is made even clearer. One body laying on its back has no stomach. The only outline comes from the exposed, broken ribcage. Another has nothing from the waist down. The fleshy bones of his legs are on the other side of the battleground. The other corpses have the same conditions: limbs gone, gutted, or completely crushed into mush.

All of them wear gas masks and balaclavas, or 'ski masks', which makes it easier to look out. They're just faceless, nameless bodies; which is how Rigby prefers. Despite the desensitization of being alone for three months, the jobs are harder whenever he can see the faces. It reminds him how everyone had lives before this all.

Movement.

He focuses on a small figure concealed behind a pile of crates. Small traces of gray barely peek into view.

Rigby moves the binoculars down.

_Shit. There's probably more than him around. Just when I thought I could finally catch a break._

He peaks back into the binoculars. The creature is gone. He looks all around the crates yet sees nothing.

The raccoon throws the pair harshly onto the ground. The aforementioned creature now hobbles towards him, already halfway there. Its jaws gaping wide.

Without hesitation, Rigby picks up his SKS, shoulders the rifle, and fires three successive shots. The skinwalker jolts and spazzes as it falls forward and skids five more feet towards the raccoon. Rigby kneels, aiming at the truck.

Nothing.

Then he shifts all around the open, hilly field.

Lifeless.

The sound will attract more fleshies, but at least the truck is completely empty. Rigby shoulders his rifle onto his back and sprints down the hill. He sweeps through the area, inspecting the damage and what all there is to salvage. The crates are heavenly. Freeze-dried food, instant noodles, water, and cans; bakelite mags, rifles, and ammo; various clothes, gas masks, and filters: it's Christmas all over again.

Rigby's shoulder's drop at the realization of what all is here. He may have to make two trips. He sets to work filling his empty bag with all the food, water, and filters he can carry. The ammo counts for much less and grabs what he can last. There are tons of empty magazines for rifles he does not have sprinkled around next to the broken container. He lifts up the top of the wooden crate until it snaps off completely. Three ammo cans spill out onto the snow. He opens them up. He stashes whatever ammo he can fit into his bag and slings it back over his shoulder. In one haul Rigby gained fifty pounds. The tiny raccoon grunts and moans under the extra weight, but he'll manage.

He looks down at one of the dismembered bodies. His hands grip an AK74. Rigby has no shortage of guns but he reaches for it anyway. He pries off the death grip wrapped around it and tosses the limb hand away. Then he performs a sweep. Safety lever down. Ammo in the mag. He pulls back the bolt only for a bullet to come flying out the side and into the snow. The raccoon returns the mag and chambers the first round.

He begins to walk back the way he came but stops himself. He turns, gazing over the scene; looking for something that's not there. An obvious puzzle piece Rigby is too dumb to figure out finally hits him in the chest.

_Why would they be carrying all this stuff? It can't just be these guys on their own._

Then it dawns on him. His head grows hot with nervousness and fright.

_These guys are runners. And if they need __this__ much stuff, they must be huge. An entire town._.._Who wouldn't hesitate to kill me on sight._

Their gear, the haul, the nature of the truck, fuck even the smell...

_Bandits..._

They must not be far. And if that's the case, how long until they find him?

_I hate moving again..._

Just then, a single, quiet moan pierces through the air. The sound comes from the front of the overturned truck. Rigby slowly walks over to it, creeping quietly and moving one step at a time. At the edge of the front of the vehicle, he sweeps around the corner, AK at the ready.

It's nothing. The front of the car is horribly mangled and claw marks mark the steel. The passenger dangles over the front windshield with meat and gore alongside him. Blood runs down the seat and hood. The driver side door is completely removed but only displaced two feet from where it should be. The roof of the truck presses down on it and cakes it into the ice.

Rigby relaxes.

_Oaaaooohhh_

The raccoon looks down at the door again. Shallow, dead eyes meet the goggles of his gas mask. The young driver is completely crushed under the door. Ironically, that saved his life but came at the cost of being crushed and trampled.

Blood surrounds the door. Rigby crouches down to meet the young boy is a goat. His horns are broken off and his voice is hoarse.

_No...No, goddamnit, no..._

"Pl-please..." the boy screeches out. His tears are frozen to his face. His fur is pale and he is at the point where he cannot even find the strength to shiver. How this boy clung to life is a befuddlement. "I-I-I-I can't feel anything.

_Please...FUCK!_

Rigby shivers in fear, yet maintains his sinister tone. "What's your name?"

The stranger looks up.

"Goddamnit, What. Is. Your. Name?"

"I-I-I-It's it's it's Sirus."

Rigby sighs.

_It's not Thomas. It's not Thomas._

If it was, Rigby would have shot him then and ended his pain. He would have picked up his supplies, maybe said a quick prayer, then forget about it entirely. He pledged that they didn't matter anymore. Yet, the mere fact he was worried made Rigby feel ashamed of himself.

"P-Please..."

Rigby stands up and climbs into the truck through the missing windshield. The boy's feet are gone. His tendons are in threads and the broken, shattered bones of his legs jut out. Rigby pokes at the fleshy wound with the muzzle of his rifle. The boy doesn't scream or cry.

_His spine snapped._

"Please, g-g-get me out." Rigby can tell that it hurts him to talk.

The raccoon climbs back out and approaches Sirus. Blood is escaping his mouth and the top row of his teeth are cracked. "Pl-"

"Shh," Rigby quietly cuts him off as he puts a finger to where his snout would be. The boy nods.

He pries out an arm from under the car. When the car crashed, his hand was smashed. His pinky and ring fingers are bent the other direction and his hand is gnarled. The bare bones of his fingers going acrosss the top of his hand are exposed. Like an idiot, Sirus chose not to wear gloves. On top of the grizzly condition, his hand is frozen completely. The blood and flesh are permanently stuck in their horrid state.

_He probably doesn't even know what happened to him._

He motions his appendage to the canteen on Rigby's belt. The raccoon does nothing.

"Where were you going?"

Sirus's eyes get wider once he realizes he won't get any water. "Please-..."

"You can have some after. Where were you taking all this stuff?"

The boy clears his throat and swallows some blood. "T-t-town...Twelve miles up road."

"How many?"

"F-FFF-FFF-"

"Fifty? Forty?"

"Free Hundred," he hoarses out. His throat cannot afford to form the "-TH" sound.

Rigby looks at him blankly. Three hundred...Three fucking hundred people...

The raccoon stands up and looks back at the hill. The boy struggles to move after Rigby and out from under the door. He barely moves anywhere. The realization that Rigby won't help him sets in.

Rigby takes three steps when the Sirus says meekly, "Kill me..." The raccoon does not even slow his pace.

"Please...!"

Rigby keeps moving with the haul on his back.

At the top of the hill, he turns back to the scene. The truck, the bandits...too much is happening too quickly. He thinks about Sirus who is still under the truck door, still clinging to his last few minutes of life. Rigby looks over on the other side of the crash to see very faint, gray figures moving in the distance.

Feeling the need to justify himself, Rigby mutters, "They don't kill dead men." Rigby needs Sirus to give him as much time as he needs to make it home without running into any of _them_.

Halfway through the walk home, Rigby completely represses any thoughts of Sirus or the others from his mind. He is just another boy among dozens he had seen. If he beat himself up over every single one, then he would not be standing where he is.

_No one else matters..._

* * *

It's shorter than the others but I felt like getting this out here.

Thanks for reading!


	7. Gandzia

I am in the midst of re-editing my story, Chronicles of the Enchiridion. I'm halfway through Part 1, with the exception of a chapter I skipped. However, after a few requests and new ideas, I thought I may as well write another one of these. 890X001 does have a point. Things may have seemed repetitive. This chapter and the next should break that mold.

The chapter for which this song was named after is "Gandzia."

* * *

Nights come as lonely as the days. Lit by a dim fire, Rigby sits in a chair, staring at the cracking flames. He watches them flicker and bend in the air as the smoke rises through a hole in the ceiling below the house fireplace. He spends many nights just staring in captivation at the fire. After several hours, he stands and moves to a table against the wall. He strips apart his SKS in seconds and thoroughly cleans it.

Static sounds from a radio on a shelf overhead. Rigby changes the batteries regularly and keeps it running constantly. As he takes the cleaning rod out of the front of his rifle, he shakes his head in pity. He reaches up and dials through the stations without purpose.

A flurry of horns an cymbals shouts at him. Rigby shakes, startled by the sudden noise. He adjusts the volume and stares up at the radio as the band plays up and down the scale in succession. He laughs once the baritone begins to sing. The words are unrecognizable and foreign. _"They couldn't be playing, like, The Smiths or something?"_

Rigby resigns back to cleaning his rifle as the orchestra plays on and the full choir joins in. The flute rises up and down and the lead pounds his voice with strong gusto.

He puts his rifle together and picks up the newest addition to his arsenal. He wipes the blood off the AK74 before stripping it as well. The voices ring as bombastic as ever. Rigby turns and scans around his messy abode. The food and ammo stacks carefully near the bottom and the back of the pile but everything in the front was haphazardously thrown on. His clothes lay strewn without concern. His rifles sit stacked in the corner, scraping and scratching against each other. What order and organization that once resided here has long since left.

The music quiets and slowly builds. Rigby turns his attention to it at once the chorus burst out. _Chy ye v sviti molodytsya,_ _Yak ta Handzya bilolytsya?_ Everything is incomprehensible but the meaning is still there. How bombastic, how powerful, how hopeful the voices are against the grim snow. Their song is captivating, enthralling, uplifting.

They convey a message of hope in dying world.

Rigby reaches up and clicks off the radio. He turns back to his rifle and works in absolute silence.

* * *

The next morning, Rigby wanders off for another supply run, though the food and ammo he had was more than enough for several months of comfort. Still, he opts to search the wasteland aimlessly. He leaves his SKS at home and chooses instead to carry the AK he retrieved the day prior. He keeps cautious after encountering the convoy yesterday. There is no telling whom he can run into out in the wasteland.

The best option seems to be hiding in his shelter and waiting out the outside world. Yet, he still wanders into the unknown.

Ahead, through the blinding snowstorm is a faint light. It is a small patch of yellow barely peering through the endless white and gray. Rigby huffs his way towards it without question. Each step crunches and stomps through the thick snow. Occasionally, his foot becomes lodged and needs a firm yank to free it. Everything is muted by the howling wind.

At five hundred feet away, he dimly makes out the outline of a church. The building is long and white with a large tower in the back opposite from the door. It is peculiar. If a small group of survivors were nestled in for the night, the light would only come from a small corner. However, it has a uniform shade shining through every stain-glass window. If it was part of a larger camp, why were none of the other buildings near it shining? Where are the tents? The trucks? On the outside, there are no signs of life. Yet light still shines inside.

Rigby racks the bolt of his AK and creeps towards the church. At the oak doors, he vaguely makes out voices inside. In a swift motion, he opens the heavy door and movs inside, rifle drawn.

"A defiler!"

"Fool! Close the door behind you! Hurry! His presence will bring our undoing!"

"Who is he?"

"Does he hail from the outside world?"

"Has he come to join us?"

"No! He is an unbeliever! Look how the old world stains him!"

"Do you think he will harm us?"

"Was he sent by Him?"

Rigby faces a barrage of questions directed around him. "Hark!" the chief calls from the alter, silencing the others and drawing his attention, "It is a gift from the Monolith! Rest sister Catherine, He hath graced us for the harvest!"

"A gift from he who commands the wind and sky!"

"Praise be onto Him!"

In the church is a sizeable group of twenty to thirty people and animals. Upon hearing these words, they begin to fold their hands and bow their heads. Some kneel down while others hold their arms open towards the windows. In the silence, Rigby quickly surveys the church. Most of the bleachers are missing; either used for firewood or as a barricade of sorts. In the center, sleeping bags form the outline of a large circle. In the center is a star drawn in chalk and paint. Miscellaneous things sit in the center, ranging from blood torn coats to bags and guns. There are no weapons in sight around the church except those in the center. The statue of Jesus, which would usually be hanging above the alter, is cut down and decapitated. The words _False Prophet_ and _Tainted Blood!_ are painted onto Christ in what appears to be red paint. Strange incomprehensible sayings stain along the walls.

The old man stands up and begins to walk towards the terrified raccoon. Rigby re-racks the AK bolt, sending an unused bullet flying out of the gun on accident. "Hey, hey hey hey! You stop!" The man keeps walking, hands outstretched. "Stop! Stop moving!" He refuses to halt. The others soon begin to stand.

Rigby fires a single round into the ceiling, showing that he is serious. When he realigns his gun, the old man stops. "What the hell is going on in this loony bin?!" Rigby demands.

"Foolish boy, he desecrates the temple of the Monolith!"

"He disrespects his children!"

The old man raises a hand to his people. "Boy, there is no need for weapons in the church of he who hath cleanse us."

Rigby looks over the old man, then at the crazy followers scattered in front of him. He slowly lowers his weapon to the ground. "Fine, but I'm keep my guns, thanks. No start yapping."

"We are the rightful children of Sorokoput, the Monolith, he who hath lay waste to the world of the wicked and tames the cold of the earth. Haven't you seen it wanderer? You've encountered his presence, I'm sure," he said as he motions towards Rigby's gas mask on his belt. "You know of his powers, how he condemns the wicked to feast on the wicked."

"That's a funny way to insult my dead friends. You've probably had, like, a brother, a sister, people you've lost. What makes you so special?"

"May I ask the same to you, wanderer? Hath he kept you alive for what purpose?"

Rigby scoffs, but silently mutters to himself, "That's what I've been asking myself all this time."

"Child, I see your soul. I see who you are. You are Puteshestvennik, the Lone Wanderer. A Stalker of both the living and the dead. A man living bound by chains to roam the world but with no destination. You live neither alive nor dead."

"You couldn't be more wrong," Rigby chuckles with sweat dripping down his forehead and with a furiously beating heart.

"Tell me, boy, what has led you to me? To where will your journey take you if you leave here?"

"I...Shut up!"

"To what God do you pray to? To whom do you search for? Why does this world bind you? You have no purpose. You are demon no more than those who prey upon each other."

Rigby slowly raises his rifle, feeling more enraged with each word.

"Do you strike me down for the truth in my words or for the apathy in your heart?" the chief challenges.

Rigby swallows, calmly backing towards the door. "You said _'If'_ I leave here..."

"High priest!" one of the followers cries, "The time grows nearer!"

"The harvest is at hand!"

"Praise to he who hath commanded the winds of the earth."

The old man turns, "Gather the offerings."

Behind the alter, two people are dragged to their feet. Their hands sit bound behind their backs and black bags cover their heads. The chief priest turns back to the shaking raccoon, "He hath brought you here to fulfill your purpose."

Before Rigby could fire, hands come from behind him and grab his arms. "Hragh! Let go of me! Let go of-_mfjghjthm!"_ His rifle is torn from him as he is gagged with a rag across his mouth. They lift him from his feet and throw him to the ground. The forceful impact knocks the fight out of the poor raccoon. Rigby struggles weakly on the dirty floor, flailing his legs behind him as his hands are tied behind him. His weapons are forcefully ripped from their holsters and pockets.

"Rejoice, Stalker, for your fate is complete. The Monolith calls on you to rejoin his being. So few have this opportunity."

Everything fades to black as a shroud pulls over Rigby's face. His kicking slows and stops as he loses consciousness.

* * *

The world lies hidden in a shroud of darkness. His other senses paint a picture without distinction or lines. The prick of a needle in his right forearm. The sludge and uneasiness that reminds him of being drunk. A slur of words and chants. The copper taste of blood. His clothes taken from him. The cold, bare alter on his skin. Splotches of warm liquid on his back. The soft skin of one who lay next to him. Something forced onto him. The words floating around him were incomprehensible. He only hears a deafening roar whose silence is unrelenting.

His world comes shifting in waves. He can see the inside of his bag then nothing. He hears voices fade in and out. Wounds open and seemingly close on their own. Cold air fades to warmth and recycles itself back.

Rigby awakes on his feet. He is in the midst of walking when he feels his sense return. The lashes on his back are seething. The blood must have been trickling behind him as he walked. That comes first.

Then the cold. The wind assaults him. He brings his arms in to warm himself but they are still tied behind him. The meager longjohn pants are still his, but only a thin sheet covers his chest. His body shakes uncontrollably. His hands are numb at this point and his ears feel that they would fall off.

Then he feels the cold metal pressing into his back.

He focuses instantly on his hearing.

Four, no, five sets of crunches. Three are like him, tied to this ride.

Rigby tries to speak but the rag still gags his mouth.

Where are they taking them? Where are they going?

Then it becomes clear. They are marching to die. They move until something annihilates them.

Rigby desperately moves around, instinctively trying to look at something he could not see. He is pushed down into the icy snow as it coats his poor coat. Dear God, it stings. It works into his fur and his skin. It hurts more than a thousand knives piercing at once.

"_MHFFFHHGGHHAGAHGUHGGH!"_ Rigby tries to scream as the ice dug into him. Every second is one closer to hypothermia and death. The man behind him drags the raccoon to his feet, pushing him along with the others. He is relieved, only for a moment, to be out of the dense snow.

His adrenaline starts pumping the cold out of him. _"All I need is a moment. A strong wind. A distracting noise. Anything. Please." _The knowledge of death clings in his mind. Then again, what else is there? He stands defenseless, nauseous, tired, and slowly freezing to death. What other choice does he have? He promised to stay alive only for himself those many nights ago. But the months were not kind.

He hopes, prays for luck.

His feet give out, too cold to keep moving. He drops to his knees, too tired to move on. "Help him," comes from his right. The man behind Rigby reaches and grabs his arm. _"Thank you."_

Rigby slips his leg behind that of the man. He trips him, jumping down on top of the falling cultist. He slams hard onto his chest, knocking the wind from him. He is forcefully pulled back by the other man and held to the snow. At least he tried.

Then, at once, the guard is thrown off as a weight hurls itself onto him. Rigby springs back and throws himself back onto the man laying down. A pipe comes down heavily on his back, knocking him further onto the man. Rigby comes to his knees and is struck across the face. He can feel the man struggle to get up under him. Rigby throws his head down at once, in a last ditch move for survival. He clips the man's jaw with his the top of his head and forces him back down. As the man screams in pain, Rigby brings himself down, striking his forehead and laying him out. Rigby turns and shuffles with blind hands for something on the man's belt. He grabs a pocket knife from his front pocket.

That's when arms come around his throat and pull him back down. He yells and kicks as the man's elbow presses into his throat. He only gags and chokes in response.

His shaking, numb hands try to work the small pocket knife. It slips and falls onto the man's chest. He pats around, searching for it.

He growls softly as the grip his neck tightens. There is nothing he can do to stop it. Tears leak from his face. He finds the knife and opens it, slipping his finger and slicing his middle finger.

The man rotates, pressing Rigby deep into the snow. The coldness aches and chills him. He cries out now in wheezing, shallow gasps. The snow digs again into his skin as he freezes and chokes. He slits his wrist on accident.

He needs to live. He needs to survive. He is drowning fast in frost and suffocating as he loses more and more breath. The ice works against him, making each move more difficult. But the ice is feeling warmer. His eyes show bright spots from a lack of oxygen.

He relaxes slightly. It feels nice. To relax. Even if the man only chokes him out, the creatures or the cold will come next to kill him. He relents and lets go, sinking completely into the cold. He stops moving completely.

The man loosens a little, as the little raccoon, bounded and shrouded, lays still in the snow. He may just leave him there and let the snow claim him. It is the Monolith's work, one way or another.

Then the thin sound of a snip echoes. The man looks down.

Muffled screaming. Rigby huffs in air as he stands and drives the knife into his throat. He strikes over and over as blood launches onto him. He pounds over and over and over. Then he tears the shroud off his head.

Blinding light. The dull gray snow is blinding. He shudders, feeling the snow punch him unrelentingly. He forces his eyes open.

One of the prisoners lays dead in the snow, bleeding out of the head. The other is on the ground, struggling as the captor stands ready to strike. Then he turns to see Rigby and is shocked by the sight of his dead friend.

As he raises a thin black rod, Rigby dives, piercing into his chest. He forces him to the ground and pounds the knife into his sternum. He coughs up blood and it splatters around his face.

Rigby falls back, coughing wildly. He gasps once the excitement wears down. He rubs his strained, swelled neck as he forces burning cold air into his lungs.

He stands up, shaking and wobbling. He cuts the rope on the other prisoner. Rigby looks down at the cultists. "I-I-I thought they were guns. I-I thought they had guns on us," he mutters incoherently staring at the metal rods in their hands. He rips the snow matted sheet from his chest.

He tears off the first man's coat and forces it on himself. It is warm; ungodly warm. The blood in it cakes into his fur, warming his skin. He puts on his hat, boots, and scarf as well.

He brings himself to his feet, armed with only a small pocket knife. He marches on, dazed, back the way they came.

"Wait!"

Rigby still keeps walking.

"He's hurt! We need to help him!"

The raccoon finally turns back. The other prisoner is a woman, in her mid twenties. She already wears the coat of the other lunatic. Rigby notices her features. Despite how bulky the coat is, he can see her physical features. She is thin, but built. She moves with purpose. Rigby can hardly see her, believing he was still recovering from chocking. Then he sees who she is, how she blends into the snow.

The cloud girl kneels alongside the third prisoner. He is not dead; instead he moves slowly and his arm hovers as though it reaches for something in the air.

CJ turns to him and gapes her mouth open. "Rigby..."

Rigby says nothing.

The girl turns back to the man, accepting that he was beyond saving. She stands and raises a boot over his head.

"Wait! WAIT!" Rigby screams and pulls her back. He forces her to face him. "They don't go after the dead ones. T-they'll come for him." Rigby turns and grabs a rod off the ground. "I-I thought they held guns on us," he chuckles shortly again. What can he do with only a short rod? How can he survive?

"Thanks. T-Thank you. I, I don't know how long I was held there."

"We're covered in blood and, i-it's fucking cold. We need to move, n-nininin-now," Rigby commands as he marches back on the footsteps leading into the snow. "Monolith or no Monolith, I'm not dying here."

A howl in the distance behind them startles CJ. She stands for a final moment by the dying prisoner before following behind Rigby. "Rigby," she begins as she meets up to him. They slowly force their way through the snow. Rigby's eyes are dried and his nose is bitten with frost. He moves the scarf over his snout and continues forward. "Rigby!"

"Later."

They march slowly together in silence for a quarter of a mile. The footprints from before are slowly fading. The wind nips from all sides. Their breaths are heavy and they huff with each step. Rigby's stomach roars with hunger. His feet scream in pain.

"Rigby," CJ huffs out, "Wha-, What happened to Mordecai? To, everyone, you, knew."

"Dead."

"I'm sorry. Mord-, cai, how did he...?"

"Dead by now."

They keep silent.

He can feel eyes watching him. The snow on the ground is stained red with their blood, both from when they marched out into the cold and now traveling back. Something has to pick up their scent. Hopefully, if they get there in time, _they_ will kill everyone in the church.

That is Rigby's new purpose. He wants to live just enough to decapitate that old man. That's all he needs.

At last, there it is. The dim light in the distance. It arrives just as the footprints fade back into the flat snow.

Rigby forces himself forward. The pain with each step no longer matters. "I win," he mutters to himself. But how? What weapons does he carry save for his pipe? The church has dozens of crazies inside. It will be madness.

But Rigby keeps moving. His bloodlust will hack through them like wheat, no matter what. He will not rest until he swims in blood.

"Rigby!"

The raccoon stops, taken out of his trance.

"Jeez, I've tried calling you all this time. We need to be smart about this. Think about what we're up against."

"Thought about it, and I'm going to kill them."

She sighs, "You fucking retard..."

"My gun is in the center. AK74. Fully automatic. 650 rounds of five-point-four-five by thritynine millimeter per minute. Twenty-nine rounds in the magazine. CJ, I am going to kill everyone in there and I don't need your help to do it."

He moves further towards the church. He is a hundred feet away now. He can hear a hymn inside. It makes his blood boil and his eyes go killer red. That is all he needs.

"Rigby, wait!"

"I told you-!"

CJ holds out a hatchet. She drops it into the raccoon's awaiting hands. He nods back at her. "So are we going in through the front or the-"

Before she can finish, Rigby takes off sprinting on all fours. He leaps and brings his arms in front of him.

He smashes through the stain glass window. The cult panics, shrieking in horror as the blood covered raccoon bursts through the window.

"He has returned!"

"The Monolith hath rejected it!"

"The harvest has failed!"

Rigby goes to work immediately, slashing and gutting church members as he sees them. He screams in fury as he holds a cultist and brings down the ax, tearing chunk after chunk from his chest before throwing him back down.

CJ arrives through the front door, holding the pipe from before. She raises it but quickly lowers it. "Rigby! RIGBY!"

The raccoon halts for a moment as he is about to strike down another. Then he looks around.

The members gather around the alter, screaming and crying. They beg toward the sky in incoherent prays and apologies. "He will come for us!"

"Nothing can protect us now!"

"Forgive me! Forgive me!"

They stopped caring about the psychotic raccoon. Rigby lowers the ax. CJ's eyes move up and down him. Rigby looks down. Blood drips off of him. Every inch is covered. He killed six in total. There is hardly much left of them to recover. "It's not worth it," CJ says to him as she motions back at the wailing believers. Rigby marches past them all. The priest turns to him with sulken, tear-filled eyes. "Do you know what you have done, boy?! He will come for us! He hath shown contempt for us! You spit in his-_ach_" Rigby grabs the chief and drags him to the alter. He throws him on top of it. He raises the ax for all to see. He brings it down. In three cuts, his head cuts clean off.

The church hardly fazes.

Rigby tears off his blood stained clothing. His earlier coat, shirts, and boots are in the center along with his bag and rifle. CJ has already packed herself and is ready to leave. Rigby takes his time. After the adrenaline spike, his arm sings the breadth of its damage. His shoulder muscles are torn and he feels only searing pain when lifting it. With his gear fixed and his rifle back comfortably in front of him, he leaves the church of the Monolith to its fate.

The two burst open the doors.

The cold air hits back at them and wafts into the church. They step outside. CJ holds her arms out, laughing aloud at how she cheated death. She looks back down. Rigby holds his rifle to her. "Rigby?"

He says nothing as he keeps his rifle trained on her. The rifle she carries on her back: it is sleek with a scope on top. The barrel is thick and it has a wooden, slotted stock. The dust cover and the action are almost identical to an AK. Rigby imagines the sound it must make, specifically one akin to a wrench hitting the ground. The weapon, strangely, looks like it would be highly illegal and very, very rare. There was glimmer in the distance before Rigby killed Doug; like those of binoculars. There was no way Doug could make it all the way from the hill to him in such a short amount of time.

In his trance, CJ pushes the barrel of his AK out of the way and forces her pistol up to meet Rigby. He steps back and holds the rifle resolute. "Rigby...?"

They stand drawn for some time. Finally, CJ spoke, "Rigby, I'm going to put my gun away. I'm going to put my gun away, okay?" She slowly moves her USP handgun back into her holster, minding to keep her finger off the trigger. Rigby still stands.

"Rigby...?"

The raccoon blinks several times. He lowers his rifle slowly. He still holds onto the grip tightly. He stays turned to CJ and walks backwards. After a few steps he turns and walks off.

"Wait!" She runs after him, "Rigby, I want to come with you."

"No."

"Then I'll stay a quarter mile back and follow you. It makes no difference. Please. Rigby. I'm tired. I'm hungry. I just need a place to sleep."

_"I shouldn't trust her."_ He sits in the snow, "Okay, so let's wait."

Shrieking sounds in the distance beyond the church.

"Rigby, if we stay, those things will come and kill us along with all of them."

"Okay."

"I need you! And you owe me! If I hadn't dove on that one guy, we'd both be dead."

"Then leave."

CJ shakes her head, towering over the small boy, and storms off, set on survival. Rigby closes his eyes.

He does not know how long he stays like that.

When he opens, he sees one. A skinwalker stands in front of him, perched. It is eyeing him down mere feet away. Rigby raises his rifle. The monster stands motionless. It just stares. It waits. It listens. Rigby hesitates shooting it, only because it would attract more. It looks him over, but not as though it would kill him. It just watches.

A scream comes from the church. The skinwalker turns slowly from Rigby and charges into the building with many others.

Rigby gets up and quickly runs back towards his home.

* * *

Halfway there, he turns sharply with his rifle raised. CJ is half a football field away from him. "What did I say?!"

CJ laughed, "I told you I'd follow you!"

Rigby shakes his head. "FINE!"

Together, they head towards Rigby's shelter.


	8. CANCELED

I feel that either I'm going over everyone's heads with this or I'm awful at presenting my point. No, this is not a direct response to 890X001's review. This has been boiling up for a while. There was some stuff he got right and some stuff he missed. My formula is flat, but "Every chapter feels like a mini-story, this doesn't really feel like a full fledged plot" is the exact point of On the Road.

I originally wrote this on a whim and stuck with it. I just wrote a simple, grim glimpse into a post apocalyptic wasteland no one on this board touched yet. I tried focusing on a theme touched on but not explored; hopelessness. In every other major story, yes people die, the world is grim, but everyone has each other. I tried to make something where Rigby is so alone, so isolated, and so broken that there is no alternative.

So when I expanded the story, I just starting writing on a limb and what I thought at the time was cool. All the while I tried to keep an overarching theme. Then around chapter four it hit me what I could write this as; an anthology story. For those that don't know, an anthology story is like the Odyssey, the old sci-fy TV shows from the 60's, and the Mad Max movies. It is not about the character, what he does, or who he was/is. The story is about what he sees, who he meets, and what transpires, then he leaves and explores another group/place. Each environment is supposed to have their own feeling, identity, and message. All the while, these set-pieces slowly build upon the hero. He suffers tragedy, renews his hope and has it pulled out from under him.

And since I have a Russian influence (that could be a little more subtle), each chapter could have been a different theme or based off a different myth from Russian culture.

Hence why I named this _On the Road._ Rigby, the most flawed and irresponsible character, lives the remainder of his life on one long road. He endlessly searches from something with no end. And like the title suggests, everything and every chapter is like a landmark or a rest-stop, but the road keeps going on without them.

I tried to mimic that all here, but too late in the story. That was my motive behind the church/cult in the previous chapter. It was meant to be short and leave the reader craving more. However, that was the only chapter that followed this idea (aside from the mini-arc with Jeremy and Chad and the fight with Doug), so it was too out of place and awkward. I should have been doing this since the second chapter, where each is a new, grand location and interesting cast of characters that Rigby either leaves behind, kills, or gets killed.

I noticed that my followers and readers dwindled dramatically by chapter 3/4. This is due in large part to the fact that I publish a new chapter once every four or five months and the fact that I cannot concentrate. I always try to keep a reasonable word limit while keeping everything contained in one chapter. So when I wrote the last one, I sort of squished it all together at the last minute. I also have a horrible attention span. I will wait a week to maybe a month then binge-write a chapter in a single night. Then I try to complete the entire chapter in one night, so that leads to even more rushing and crunching.

In all honestly, this _should_ have been my best work yet. This _should_ have been a grim, ice filled Odyssey where Rigby does something new and different every chapter. However, I realized it too late, got lazy, and generally ran out of interesting scenarios too quickly. My formula for this is really repetitive. Rigby wanders out, gets into trouble, and escapes with the skin of his teeth.

I think, for now, I'm done with this. Everyone has lost interest and I am just getting frustrated. I think I'll just cancel this. I have too much already to work on which I subsequently push back to push everything else back.

**However,** I would, sometime, like to rewrite this and shuffle everything around. Maybe move certain points/places around. The intro is beautiful the way I have it and should stay like that. But the church part could probably be somewhere like chapter two or three, keep the part in chapter two where Rigby is locked in the building in the dark, shuffle around Chad/Jeremy and Doug, and maybe keep an on-off companion. **Since** this is an anthology series, hell I'll even take requests for chapters and places.

But, this version as it stands just bothers me. It could be so much better.

Unless I am just being an asshat and this is fine. If you want to see this story, as it currently stands, with my vision from the beginning, then let me know and I can pump out another chapter within the week. If not, then say so and tell me what I should change. _I am dying for feedback_.

Until then, I will re-edit my Chronicles of the Enchiridion series and hope for the best. I apologize for this and all my other stories for taking so long. I'm just an over-stressed college freshman who's making this up as I go along.


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